


In Perfect Love and Perfect Trust

by Stormcalled (Raidho)



Series: In Perfect Love and Perfect Trust [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Dark Knight Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Dragoon Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Mutual Pining, One-sided attraction but at different times from both sides, Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), the slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2020-07-29 01:18:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 115,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20073757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raidho/pseuds/Stormcalled
Summary: The Warrior of Light answers the call to the First and among the light-ravaged land of Norvrandt finds something wholly unexpected: the time and the peace to remember what it is to be merely human rather than the Weapon of Light.  The allies he kept at arm's length so long become family, and finally, here in this most doomed of lands, is some comfort from war and all it has taken from him.OrThe Exarch will stop at nothing to save his inspiration, even from the darkness inside the Warrior of Light's own heart and mind.





	1. Travelers of Norvrandt

**Author's Note:**

> This will not be a direct retelling of Shadowbringers, but will weave in and out of the story, providing insight here, adding scenes there, occasionally dropping them wholesale in when appropriate. As such knowledge of the MSQ is necessary to follow the story properly. It will be more or less linear in flow of time.
> 
> Consider reading the ongoing first work in this series, Fragments of Time, as a companion piece, telling the story of how the Exarch came to be where and how he is. Both will update regularly. In addition events in Wrought in Crystal, my collection of fills for #ffxivwrite2019, may at times be referenced.
> 
> The rating will, at some distant point in the future, increase to explicit.
> 
> If you wanna keep track of me and see me yell about the Exarch, writing, and headcanons (and possibly yell back at me), you can catch me on twitter @AStormcalled or on tumblr @dellebecque

Aden kept one ear turned to the conversation behind him, privately amused at Tataru’s unfailing ability to fluster Wedge. Most of his attention however lay on his environs. It felt like ages since he’d been this close to the Crystal Tower, in perhaps not simpler but certainly less fraught times. His path had been clear then, and for a few moons his allies more _ genuine _. NOAH hadn’t treated him like the Weapon of Light, merely a man. A strong one, someone to be relied upon at the forefront, but the research had been as much his as anyone else’s.

Well, not _ anyone _ else’s.

He’d never been so deep in the shadow of the Tower, and though still the air felt charged, full of aether and subtle light refracted through crystal. It felt timeless. Like he could reach out and touch the man he’d been back then, so much less confident but more _ whole _ . When he’d yet to fall in love with and lose Haurchefant, before war had all but ruined his body. When he _ had _ been but a man, and not a one-man army fueled by defiance and need.

Aden drew far enough from the staging point he no longer heard the others, and he could devote his whole attention to this melancholic peace at the base of the Tower. It certainly hadn’t been there when he stood at the doors, or when he rushed through the ornate halls. He clambered up the debris to the wall, unfastened his gauntlet to expose the half-glove beneath and pressed his fingers to the cool crystal.

“If you’re alive in there,” he murmured, looking up at the impossible expanse of shimmering blue, “you’re still a moron.”

The thought of that phrase disturbing G’raha’s slumber brought a rare smile to his face, wistful. He’d never quite paid the man back for his trickery, but it’d felt good to be just another idiot adventurer for a little while, so he didn’t mind. Let that serve, then. Let him wake knowing Aden had been here, and called him that again, and let it vex him the rest of his days that he would never answer the slight.

Light glinted off one of the spires of the Tower, forcing Aden to look away. He withdrew his hand and replaced his gauntlet. As he cinched it down he noticed something small and vaguely metallic amidst the rubble at his feet and bent to retrieve it, turning it over in his hands.

“Sorry, I-I meant to say─” one ear swiveled back to listen, but he continued examining the bit of metal, “the scholars haven't finished their preliminary assessment of the site yet, so we're not supposed to venture too far in.” Aden glanced up at Biggs, giving him a vaguely disappointed look. He didn’t need to _ say _ this wasn’t his first time at a survey site, as Biggs looked suitably admonished when he asked, “...Hm, what's that you got there?”

He held it up briefly for the others to see, splitting the difference between Tataru and Wedge needing to look up and Biggs needing to look down. It looked like a piece to _ something _ , a dial to monitoring equipment or even the main wheel of a mechanical clock, but he couldn’t quite place it. As they discussed he turned his attention back to it. The symbol wasn’t _ quite _ the Ironworks emblem, and there was a low thrum of aether through as if it had been part of something powerful. It _ almost _ seemed familiar, and yet--

_ Now… now I have you! _

A lance of pain shot through Aden’s skull, and he staggered with a sharp gasp, nearly lost his footing. That gasp rolled into a growl, animalistic and deep in his chest, as he set his jaw against the pain. By the _ Twelve _ , if this was the beacon, and that half-golem bastard finally attempting to pull him to gods-know-where, the first thing he meant to do was _ slug _ the prick. And then perhaps hear him out.

He still had the presence of mind to realize the others were panicking, at least until the second jolt of agony--like that lance had _ hooked into him _ . _ Stay with me! Focus on my voice! _

He couldn’t… he couldn’t do this in anger. Aden didn’t know _ how _ the man called to him, or how he meant to transport him, but for those particularly willful individuals also blessed with a surfeit of aether, strong emotions could throw off the balance of delicate workings, especially ones that required cooperation. Maybe… maybe he _ wouldn’t _ slug the bastard, then, just…

_ Let expanse contract, eon become instant…. _

_ It’s the fucking incantation _ . He was casting the spell, _ now _ , and it took every onze of willpower Aden possessed to calm himself, to _ stop _ resisting. He focused hard on the delicate haze of aether in the air here, that gentle melancholic nostalgia. It felt… it felt how he felt when he talked about the expedition, when he thought about how he’d never see G’raha again. The man didn’t enter his thoughts often nowadays, dark as they were and rare as his visits to Mor Dhona had grown, but he’d been a friend, and he might’ve remained a friend. Letting him go was one of many regrets, one of many losses that had led Aden to his current state.

When the next jolt of pain came, Aden just felt… sad. That sense of melancholy suffused him, a pliant non-resistance. He could no more restore any of those lost to him than he could reach across the gap himself, so he may as well let this stranger pull him to gods-knew-where and maybe start anew.

_ Throw wide the gates that we may pass! _

Something in him _ shattered _ . Aden felt himself collapsing for a split second before he stood.in a rich blue darkness, the color of the last edge of evening before full dark. Drifting embers of starlight shimmered all around him, and it felt… _ not _ outside himself. This wasn’t the Rift he had seen while facing Omega, this was… something else.

It was beautiful and familiar in a haunting way. He had been here before. Or perhaps he'd never left.

Aden didn't have time to consider that strange thought before it felt like a hand reached behind his sternum, grasped at something unseen and vital, and _ pulled. _He had the sensation of moving, rapidly gaining speed.

And then the Echo _ exploded. _A hundred voices assaulted him, familiar and unfamiliar, memory and vision alike. He saw all of them in turn, shards of what had been sailing past like shooting stars. His heart seized, the strain of the Echo squeezing it tight, his pulse a furious drumbeat in his head. Among the din he heard Haurchefant's voice, strained against the pain to look for him, reaching out--but he was gone, perhaps mercifully, before Aden could more than glimpse that dread vision.

_ We did everything that was asked of us! _

Arbert. The shards of whatever had shattered in his soul when the summons finally broke through his defenses grated painfully against that voice. He knew that suffering deeply, to fight and to struggle and to do everything in his power… and still lose. Not a whole world perhaps, but the people he'd lost over the years had _ been _his world. Now he fought…

For sake of fighting. Because it was right, and if he did not thousands would die, surely, but the emptiness he felt outside the heat of battle drove him as much as any altruism or defiance. After everything, he had little left but his own righteous fire, and even those he'd grown close to reminded him of his losses or sometimes seemed to fall under the spell of the _ weapon of light. _ Zenos was _ right _: he himself was little more than a beast, living to fight and kill, sometimes on demand and sometimes for the thrill of it.

But only because the crucible of the blessing left him naught else.

Dawn shone around him and grew impossibly bright, as if he faced Azeyma herself in naked glory. Eyes scrunched to barest slits, he craned his head to look, still in the grip of a brutal and overwhelming Echo vision.

"_ Minfilia! _" He only caught a glimpse of her in the light, mind racing to catalogue the details as he'd trained himself for these more intense, strained visions, before he had to look away, the light searing more than his eyes. One more loss here to torment him, all his greatest failures counted out in the seconds between one world and the next.

"_ Your time has not yet come. _"

Blessed darkness took him.

And blinding light woke him. It pierced the darkness behind his eyelids, bright as noonday in Thanalan. His chest ached, and his head felt like he'd gone a few rounds with Godbert. Aden threw his arm over his eyes before opening them, trying to adjust to the brightness in stages. The air was so… _ still _. Not completely lifeless but inactive, barely stirring. It unnerved him, and he strained his ears for any hint of his environment.

Eventually he moved his arm, blinking blearily up at a washed out sky and the purple leaves of a tree faded from overexposure. He squinted, the light exacerbating his headache, and gingerly pushed himself up, checking for injuries. Aside from the after effects of the Echo he seemed no worse for wear, and his equipment intact. He hadn't known the stranger would pull him across right away, and considered himself lucky to have been out at the survey site in his modified drachenmail--because who knew what kind of gear he’d be able to acquire here.

All the living sounds of the forest he’d expect at this light level seemed dim, and he couldn’t see a road from where he stood. If the stranger had meant to strand him, he’d done a damn fine job. Aden picked a direction based on the terrain and started walking.

The first person he met was uncannily familiar, and yet not. He managed to play along with the merchant’s friendly banter long enough to nail down that it was _ the middle of the night _ , and the sky was _ always _ like this--and that there was a town nearby. It was a direction, at least.

The still air weighed down on him, stagnant and oppressive. It felt like it’d be harder to perform a jump here-no air currents to contend with, but the atmosphere _ pushed down _ , like it wanted to press you into the ground to accept whatever may come. He wondered how the people here endured it, how they managed a _ whole city _ with this hanging over their heads. And if _ this _ was the middle of the night, _ how _ did they _ sleep? _ Whatever he’d envisioned when he’d first heard the First described, it wasn’t this.

Nor how much this place put him in mind of Mor Dhona. As he came out of the forest and rounded the cliffs it came into view, the godsdamned _ Crystal Tower _. He squelched the urge to break into a run--it didn’t mean anything, no one familiar would be waiting for him there unless it was one of the missing Scions. He felt stupid, that a simple trip back had made him so nostalgic--but then he’d let that sensation around the base of the Tower, the cathedral to times long past and forever out of reach, into him in order to answer the summoning, and it yet lingered.

By the time he reached the checkpoint and the guards there he was in a foul mood, but resolved not to start a fight with a woman merely doing her job. _ They’ll take good care of you _ , the merchant had said. If _ take good care of you _ meant taking a chakram blow across his throat. It didn’t come to that, though she didn’t hesitate to display her prowess on the horror in white that crept upon them as she questioned him.

And he thought better of his unkind sarcasm when the merchant’s ring tumbled to the ground. _ These people suffer, and I’m here to aid them--remain wary but don’t show them callousness. _ That melancholy was still close at hand, better to meditate on it than his frustration and floundering confusion in this strange land.

“Everything all right, Captain?”

Aden’s ears perked at the familiar voice, driven so deep into his brain and his soul he could _ never _ forget it, and he turned in time to see the guardswoman salute his summoner. “Quite all right, my lord. Just a stray sin eater, and a weak one at that.”

_ My lord _. He mulled on that, studying them as they conversed, looking for subtle hints of body language. He found few, the soldier professional in her bearing, and his summoner all but completely concealed in cloak and cowl.

“Come with me. I will answer whatever questions you have when we are somewhere more private.” If anything by the cant of his shoulders, the incline of his head and the barely perceptible tremor in his voice the man seemed… anxious? _ Excited _ , even? It unnerved him, but he followed silently. His first instinct pegged the man for a scholar, and he knew well that an apparently attentive ear could get him _ everywhere _ with the type.

* * *

The Exarch returned to the Ocular after their turn about the city, mind finally catching up to the hundred little details of Aden’s behavior and appearance and speech he’d catalogued. He looked little different, not unexpected as only a few short years had passed for him: his hair was shorter, something one could run their hands through and expect it to stay in place and out of the way, still the same russet red shot through with an almost golden blonde. The beard was new, but he’d seen it in images and expected the neat, trim line along his old friend’s jaw. It disguised his age, turning his fresh-faced youth into something more ambiguous. He carried himself more confidently, made eye contact more readily, and those mismatched eyes of his remained piercing, one amber gold and the other emerald green. His accent had drifted, too, something else he’d expected after hearing recordings but somehow surprised him anyroad: he sounded as if he were from everywhere and nowhere, perhaps the faintest hint of his natural Ishgardian accent remaining, and the occasional word choice that betrayed his years in Gridania.

All of those details seemed paltry next to the change in Aden’s behavior. He misliked much of what he’d discovered in the course of his research, and after the mess made by his fumbling efforts to summon the man he’d expected the sort of coarse treatment he’d received from Alisaie. Instead he’d encountered a man understandably tense and wary, but even more reticent than before… and so very, very carefully neutral. Perhaps his friend had grown wiser in the ways of the world and understood the value of more politic speech, but something in his expression had seemed blank rather than guarded. 

It bothered him. It _ worried _ him. Aden did not yet understand how terrible a thing the Exarch had asked of him, what it potentially _ could _ do to him, and he could not explain it without betraying the secret that would keep his dear friend safe and whole at the end of everything. All he could do until relieving him of that burden was make him comfortable, see him cared for as best as possible. He trusted in the Pendants to provide excellent accommodations, he really did, but only checking in would soothe his anxiety. Everything had to be _ perfect. _ In part by way of apology for the consequences of his clumsy groping across the Rift, in part to satisfy that portion of him that had longed for years to see Aden smile again. 

He waited a reasonable amount of time for the man to settle in. With a gesture and a minor effort of will he focused his portal to scrying on Aden--and spied the man removing the padding he wore under his armor to reveal permanently sun-kissed skin. The Exarch wasn’t doing this to _ intrude _, and he began to make the gesture to end the scrying--but he froze, gaze snagged on the wide, ragged scar that marked Aden from his collarbone on one side nearly to his hip on the other. It most certainly hadn’t been there before, and the scholarly part of his mind helpfully suggested a date, _ first encounter with Zenos yae Galvus. _ It bisected another scar low on his stomach, spreading across the curve of his abdomen and just barely dipping below his waistband. _ Nidhogg. _

The one from Zenos was by far the worst in view, still discolored and stretching oddly as he moved. The scar drew his gaze across Aden’s body and at some point in the distant past that might have been a _ pleasurable _ sight, but now he merely assessed the man’s physical state. He’d seen Aden topless two or three times in his youth, the other man oddly unselfconscious despite his adamant desire for privacy, and at the time admired his form with all the attention a seeker in his prime might. He’d been muscular then, powerfully built for one of their people but sleek in a way that belied both his heritage and his particular martial training. Now he seemed _ lean _ , still powerfully built but something strangely absent about him. No softness remained in his body, only hard angles of sculpted muscle and sharp bone. It didn’t look _ healthy _, and the Exarch’s mind raced for how he might approach Chessamile to inquire about the cause of such an appearance without arousing suspicion.

While he took all this in Aden removed the lower portions of the padding, and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his skivvies. Ah, _ yes _ , he’d _ forgotten--unselfconscious indeed _ . It’d been so long and so few knew that the detail had entirely slipped his mind: - _ the Warrior of Light slept nude _ . During the expedition one of the Ironworks employees had thought it an amusing joke to play on him, to assign him to bunk with Aden one of the few nights the Warrior of Light stayed in their base camp while exploring the Crystal Tower. It’d been a particularly restless and somewhat _ shameful _ night, one he’d labored never to repeat again lest he irreparably embarrass himself in front of a friend he had very much wanted to impress. Though the particulars of that were no longer a concern due to the changed nature of his body he still flushed crimson at his role of well-intentioned voyeur. He began to make the gesture again as Aden turned away from the scrying angle--and he froze once more. 

_ Nidhogg _, his memory supplied again before the rest of his thoughts caught up. He’d read medical files salvaged from various sources, ensuring he not attempt to summon the Warrior of Light while recuperating from an injury, and had some inkling of the toll that fight had taken on him. It had not adequately communicated the evidence of his eyes: the wretched mess of claw marks each easily the size of a grown man’s fist, the puckered pocks that very precisely lay oh so close to his spine, one so dangerously near to his tail it seemed a miracle it hadn’t been severed from his body. For a long moment he stared, not in admiration but horror.

And then his mind began racing. The Warrior of Light had faced many foes since then, but how whole in body was he? _ Could he do this _ ? Had the Exarch merely summoned him to a _ different _ death? The risk was there, of course, one he’d planned so carefully to mitigate at the end, but how _ recovered _ was Aden from all of this? The date of his fight with Nidhogg was not so long before his harrowing encounter with the Warriors of Darkness and his first encounter with Zenos, the latter of which had dealt him another near-fatal blow. _ And his allies had pressed him to fight through this _ ? Needfully, perhaps, but it seemed particularly _ cruel _, even knowing how little could stop him once he bent his will towards a goal. Yet what alternative did they have, who else could do what Aden did, defend so many at the risk of so few?

_ You have _ . He didn’t like the thought, reminded again of a different man in a different time by a name he’d long abandoned. It provided a way forward, though. He’d done what he’d done for the Crystarium all these years through trickery and the gifts of Allag and _ knowledge _ , not force of arms or aether. In those earliest days he strove to master many styles that he might better emulate the Warrior of Light’s versatility, but he so rarely fought now, relying upon the barrier and the strength of those who had committed themselves to the defense of their people. They were the _ true _ heroes here, the real power of the Crystarium--her resourceful, ever hopeful people, those who carried on after their world had ended, so much like those he’d known after the eighth umbral calamity. 

Now he watched heedless of the fact that Aden was perfectly nude--it was the farthest thing from his mind, seeing the man sit down on the edge of the bed, finally removing the small twists of metal affixed at his temples. The shudder that passed through him, the wince on his face as he twisted to put them down within arm’s reach of the bed spoke of pain. _ The dampeners _ . They didn’t look quite how he’d expected, more decorative than anything, and he wondered how many people thought them a mark of vanity on a man who’d never felt that particular emotion a day in his life. He’d seen partial schematics for them in the Ironworks’ files, conceived of by Cid while Aden was convalescing from his devastating battle with Nidhogg. They augmented the dragoon’s conversion of physical force into aetheric and vice-versa, working on the same principles to a very different end--in this case, to mitigate some of the toll his fighting style took on his body, especially as it related to that injury Nidhogg dealt his spine. He’d thought them another piece of armor, oriented solely to war. Seeing how stiffly Aden moved without them he realized they were something of a mobility aid, and wondered _ what _had been on the missing pages of the schematics.

After his many years researching the man, the Exarch knew Aden valued strength, that it would draw him to someone as surely as a moth to a flame. He had a theory as to why that was, one he didn’t like to contemplate, but now he grimaced at the memory. Zenos had accidentally leveraged it in the worst way imaginable, and he loathed to use that tool even for good. From the accounts of Aden’s rather tragic romance it seemed he valued the kindness of an open hand as well, even if he demonstrated stoicism to a fault in regards to his own needs. It pained him to consider, knowing if he purposefully set about drawing in his dear friend he would wound him even more with his eventual sacrifice. Nevermind that it multiplied the manipulation he undertook a hundredfold. The open hand he had already planned to extend; the show of strength he must needs consider carefully. Too much and he might overshoot his intent thus compounding his friend’s sorrows, too little and he would not achieve his desired goal.

But someone had to convince Aden to rest, to heal between his errands, to take the time to soothe the pains of his body and his heart. He could not do that without first convincing the Warrior of Light that he and those he cared about were _ safe _. That someone else could take up that sword when he must lay it down for a moment.

The Exarch finally completed the gesture to close off the scrying window as Aden gingerly laid himself down to bed. It had been a _ long _ time, but he could do this. And if he were honest with himself, he _ wanted _ to fight alongside Aden once more. To ease his burdens, yes, but some small spark in him wanted to demonstrate how much he’d learned, to test himself to see if he could finally keep pace with his beloved hero.

“Not the bow,” he muttered to himself, turning from the portal to consider his options. The bow might betray too much of him, and he had left it behind with his childish dreams and impulsiveness. A sword and shield, perhaps--it would prove a fitting metaphor, and demonstrate his intent more directly than an overt display of aetheric strength. That decided, he need only await an opportunity to demonstrate the city’s barrier and to accompany Aden into the field without arousing suspicion or straying too far from the Tower. Much as he wished for the sake of his people that those opportunities would never come, he knew with the certainty of experience that they would.

He began practicing again the very hour Aden left bound for Kholusia by amaro.


	2. Emergent Splendor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The City of Final Pleasures rapidly becomes the City of Unending Frustrations for the Warrior of Light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little bit more by-the-book than I intended, but there was a lot of good material to work with in this sequence.

As much as Alphinaud had missed Aden, dearly wished for his keen mind and his unusual perspective in solving the riddle of Eulmore, he had dreaded this day. Without setting foot inside he _ knew _ the Warrior of Light would despise everything the city stood for, hold it even lower than the worst of the Ishgardian or Ul’dahn nobility. And while his friend’s compassion was as boundless as his rage, the latter could eclipse the former at times--this disposable treatment of the poor, pitting them against one another, would _ absolutely _ rile him. 

So now they came to the moment of truth. Alphinaud watched his friend carefully, knowing full well his reaction once the scene was explained. “Do you recall how I said Eulmore was a center of power and authority? Well, that is not the only reason for its fame.”

Aden didn’t turn to look at him, but one ear shifted in Alphinaud’s direction, and though it would be rude from anyone else Alphinaud had grown accustomed to it. “It is also known as the _ city of final pleasures_,” he continued. “The noble and the wealthy who survived the Flood gathered here to live out the rest of their days in decadent abandon.” His companion’s tail twitched in a familiar way, signaled Aden assessed distances and angles, sizing up potential threats, in preparation to attack. “A poor man could sooner pass through the eye of a needle than Eulmore's gates. The only way the commonfolk can enter this perverted paradise is if they fulfill the whim of one of the privileged. And so they are picked over like market produce....”

The coiled tension he expected never came. Instead Aden clenched his hands into fists at his sides, then slowly relaxed, tail growing still. Finally he glanced down to Alphinaud, and said dryly, “I don’t reckon my title is going to account for much here.”

The joke caught Alphinaud so off guard he snorted. It was a _ terrible _ joke at a _ terrible _ time, and Aden so rarely brought up the status he’d earned in Ishgard it was easy to forget, despite having been intimately involved in the events that led to it. Aden’s tail curled again, something _ smug _ in the motion, though it didn’t show on his face.

It threw Alphinaud so off balance he didn’t notice they’d begun handing out the meol until Aden tapped his shoulder and gestured low so as not to garner attention from casual observers. “What’s that?”

“_Meol_ is a foodstuff which Eulmore routinely doles out to the people of Gatetown, and apparently a staple for its citizens as well. Many here rely on it to survive in these times of scarcity. Yet the whole arrangement just seems…” Aden’s expression remained carefully neutral, and satisfied that his friend wasn’t going to take out his righteous anger at the treatment of the region’s poor at an inopportune moment, Alphinaud turned his attention to the crowd. “Well, let us just say it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

“Looks like everything else in this blighted wasteland,” Aden tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. “Dead and still. Like the air. It’s worse than Lakeland....” 

Alphinaud made a mental note to ask him about that later, but at the moment they had work to do. 

* * *

Work thwarted by an ill-suited thief, as it turned out. And yet when Kai-Shirr fell to his knees to beg before them, Aden’s anger fled him. Though he wore an expression of disgust and turned away, arms crossed, it was more at himself than anything else. Alphinaud handled things graciously, far more than Aden would have--while he would’ve given in he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have made the man feel ilms tall in the process. He stared out at the water instead, contemplating the mirrorlike stillness of it, the deep jade that came only from prolonged stagnancy.

“I do not regret my decision...yet I will admit that a part of me wonders if it was for the best.” Aden shifted just enough to glance down the road, seeing Kai-Shirr run off with his prize. “We strive to bring swift salvation to this world, that countless lives might be saved─not least your own. Even if it came at the cost of one man, should I have forged on regardless...?”

“Sometimes,” Aden answered, “I look at a person and I see someone else. It isn’t fair to them, but it happens. Everybody does it.” He fully turned to address Alphinaud, lowering his arms to his sides and forcing himself to relax his stance. “That man was every Brume child I’ve ever met.”

Alphinaud spared a glance for the mystel’s retreating form, and nodded his understanding after a moment. “Were Estinien here, he would most likely scoff at my soft-heartedness. “Same old Alphinaud. Ever the slave to sentiment.””

It was a _ damn _ fine impression, and Aden made a mental note to engineer a situation in which Alphinaud might do it again in front of the man. “For what it’s worth, Estinien’s an idiot. He’s good for exactly one thing.”

“I’m quite sure he’s good for at least _ two _ things based on what you told me earlier. Scoffing at me _ and _ appearing dramatically at the last moment.” That brought a small laugh, a genuine smile that reached Alphinaud’s eyes. “Shall we return to Wright, then?”

It was nice to see something look _ alive _ here--that thought sputtered out as something over Alphinaud’s shoulder caught his eye. Aden stepped forward, indicated it with a gesture. “You see that?”

It was the first time finding a body actually _ got _ him anywhere--never mind that the man was alive. It still provided Aden a darkly entertaining thought after they saw the man back on his feet and away.

He came to regret his instant of gratitude to serendipitous fate very, very soon.

* * *

Aden didn’t hesitate to walk right into the bathhouse, stripping out of his armor and padding with practiced efficiency and piling it neatly. Once he’d divested himself of his skivvies someone across the room whistled, and he set his jaw, resisting the urge to make a rude gesture in response. They didn’t harass him further, and he stepped into one of the shower units, waiting a moment before he turned anything on.

“_Feo Ul!” _he hissed, and the pixie appeared overhead, sitting on a fixture.

“Oh, dear sapling, I’ve a feeling you’re about to ask me for a rather _ special _ sort of mischief.” They grinned predatorily, setting their chin on the back of one hand.

One ear flicked, but Aden didn’t acknowledge the comment otherwise. “I need you to do two things: take my armor back to my rooms in the Crystarium, and go to Tataru. Ask her for the white jacket and everything that goes with it--she’ll know what it is. Bring it to me.”

“As you wish, my sapling!” They threw their arms in the air and disappeared in a shower of tiny motes of light.

That dealt with, Aden removed the little twists of metal affixed near his temples, wincing as he did so. It always sent a twinge up his back as the bracing effects faded in and out. So long as he kept both of them on his person they’d have _ some _ effect, so he held them carefully in his mouth as he turned the water on. It was uncomfortable, feeling the hum of aether cycling through his teeth, but it was better than taking them off entirely and waiting for the inevitable ache to set in. He'd be fighting his body over moving like a stiff old man inside two bells if he did, and setting his jaw and growling against pain if he got into a fight without them.

He stood under the hot spray for a while, letting it melt the tension out of his muscles. Normally he wouldn't indulge like this, but presumably it would be a while before Feo Ul returned. He had time to kill. Time to think about their situation. He couldn't lean on his experience in Ishgard if he was playing the part of _ assistant-- _ he had to be a little dumber, less savvy. Letting Alphinaud do the talking wouldn't be a problem, but it'd be a challenge not to _ look _ like he was brooding in silence. He had a lot on his mind.

Not least of all his summoner's words, _ "...I'm afraid I found no such individual residing in the tower when it passed into my care." _ He'd expected as much, because fate was cruel, but some part of him quiet and small and sheltered from the world had _ hoped _ on seeing the Tower in a strange place_. _He couldn't help but think of the man on the rare occasion he drew near enough to pay it any mind, to wonder if some part of him resided there yet. Perhaps this world's version had come from so long after that G'raha was naught but dust and bones--or before the mad mockery of Xande had taken up residence, though that seemed unlikely.

He'd mourned his friend once, but vainly held to hope. The way the young man had thirsted for adventure and challenge and _ knowing _ had been a mirror to himself in those days--but more outgoing, and at the time he’d entertained the thought of what it would have been like to have a friend like that growing up, sunlight to his reserved shade. Now he mourned again, foolishly. Some part of him had thought to find a kindred soul here, someone who might understand without needing to be _ told _ when he heard the tale. Or perhaps even just… a moment, where he could be his old self, and need not be the Weapon of Light.

Or perhaps they would be too different now, G’raha still in the throes of his youthful passion for adventure and Aden’s twisted into battle lust and grief.

Better that foolish young man stay out of reach, forever whole and untouched by the horrors of the world as it stood now. Better that he never see the wretched beast Aden had become inside the shell of duty and need. One chapter of his life could remain suspended in a perfect crystalline moment. That, at least, proved a dark comfort.

When he finally reached for one Aden discovered the soaps here were pressed into ornamental shapes, dyed and scented with herbs. He wrinkled up his nose; Arild had nothing but when he'd first come to them, but never again after his mothers finally figured out _ why _ their new charge wauled like a coeurl at bath time. His sensitivity only grew worse as he grew into manhood, and just holding the thing in his hand was almost overwhelming. The thought made him for one brief instant homesick, yet still he held his breath as long as he could while washing up.

And this wasn’t the _ worst _ to come.

“‘Tis done, dear flower!” He heard Feo Ul but never saw them, and when he stepped out he found not only what he’d requested but lighter weight padding meant to accompany the lighter armor… a set he hadn’t recalled _ owning_. Inspecting the lining of the top he found a tiny tag emblazoned with stylized embroidery of Tataru’s beret. He smiled in spite of himself. The lining was so fine he hardly felt the fabric when running his hands over it, and the cut of it seemed sharp enough to wear on its own if necessary, something similar to a jerkin. Everything was there--except his underthings. Aden scowled, ears drooping and frustrated with himself. He'd spent enough time around sylphs and moogles to know he should explicitly state what _ not _ to do. He deserved it, he supposed, for his lack of foresight where Feo Ul was concerned. And he was suddenly _ very grateful _for Tataru's excessively fine choices in fabric.

The armor was much lighter than what he’d sent away, a leather jacket in white and black with maile sewn into the lining, tall boots over hardened leather pants and long gloves armored at the joints. A seasoned adventurer who had spent time around Idyllshire might recognize the style and know it for what it was: something inspired by the appearance of Alexander offered by Rowena. To anyone else it merely looked stylish and eccentric. Which was the point. He needed to look less threatening, and while his drachenmail wasn't the traditional form covered in wicked spikes, it was still aggressively designed heavy armor.

As he dressed he wondered if he should call Feo Ul again and ask if they could conceal his spear, then thought better of it. He wondered if they had glamour prisms here, and if he’d just _ sit down and go through the damn things _ it wouldn’t have been a problem to begin with. At length he strolled out to find Alphinaud anxiously lingering outside the door, and one ear flicked in annoyance.

Alphinaud huffed at him in response, knowing exactly what he meant. “Is it not─ Th-That is to say... Ahem. It seems rather...exposed for one's ablutions, does it not...? “

Aden merely quirked a brow, crossing his arms and staring down at Alphinaud.

“But you haven’t even--the--” he mimed opening the bottle of perfume. “You’re one to talk!”

“Absolutely not,” Aden said, with all seriousness. “There is not a single godsdamned thing in this world that could make me use that. You, on the other hand, need to impress someone,” he leaned down and exaggerated a sniff, “and actually _ do _ smell, unlike me when I went in there. So wash up, stinky.”

With another huff Alphinaud held out his hand, and Aden gave him the bottle. He watched his young friend walk stiffly into the room, then turned away, taking a few steps down the hallway.

_ “Carbuncle!” _

The summon leapt onto Aden’s shoulders and dumped the bottle before disappearing in a puff of aether, and the ensuing shouted string of profanity rang all the way up to the next floor.

* * *

Aden had been _ thrilled _ to leave Alphinaud to the mercy of the fawning Lady Chai, a fitting punishment for his stunt downstairs and the unwelcome attention it had garnered. Fortunately the people here were remarkably permissive, and his outburst hadn't caused much of a scene. _ Too _ permissive, in all honesty. For a city no one ever left but by defenestration everyone was polite and pleasant to a fault. Then again, perhaps they had to be.

“I think you will find the Beehive is far more diverting than watching me pick out new curtains for the parlor!”

Aden let his ears and the quirk of his tail show his opinion, but he kept his expression blandly pleasant as these people seemed to expect. Or rather, as they _ accepted _ \--he couldn’t find it in himself to fake the same level of cheerful banality. For the first time in his life he _ longed _ for the high society of Ishgard or Ul’dah, where he could be a boor if someone deserved it and get away on his reputation, and have all the gossip columns in the papers sing hymns to his wit the next day. “The Beehive,” he forced a smile. “Right. Thanks.”

With that forced smile on his face he went looking for the place. _ Diverting _wasn't really his aim right now, but it might tell him much about the place to see what they did for fun. And it'd be easier to tease the strange politics of this place out of distracted or comfortable people…

When he found the place he stopped in the middle of the street, staring at one of the garish advertisements, and only stepped out of the way when someone very politely brushed past him. _ No_. He almost said it aloud, gaze darting over to the poster on the other side of the door, then to the… _ lineup _ on the opposite side of the street. It looked like a bloody _ menu_.

Aden turned to leave. He’d get his information elsewhere. He was already prepared to throw him_ self _ off the side of the city to get away from the effective _ slaves _ cheerfully serving their masters, the bland pleasantness, the perfumed air, the artificial sense of serenity. The _ weight _ of the aether was even _ worse _ in the city, and the Echo buzzed a constant directionless warning. While he wasn’t a prude, he disliked the attention walking into such an establishment would invite, and--

_ But I have a fucking _ name_. _ He stopped by the railing, hands at his sides clenching into fists and his tail low but lashing furiously. A name for a contact who would be willing to chat frankly was invaluable. He didn’t know how deep a secret he sought, if it would be open or buried at the heart of the city, so he needed somewhere to start. It wasn’t like anyone _ knew _ him here, like if he walked into such a place every gossip-monger in the free world would be speculating on a dozen untruths and hound him with questions they had no right to ask.

Aden’s hands slowly unclenched. That was a comforting revelation, that he was _ nobody _ here. No one had any reason to pay any mind to him, and as for the other attention he might invite, well--he would endeavor to respond in a more _ civil _ fashion than usual. It was a place of business. A polite _ no thanks _ would serve him better than a fist in the face. He turned back and walked in.

Resolve aside, he was _ wholly _ unprepared for the sensory assault of stepping through the entrance. The dim illumination made the rotating spotlights all the more disorienting, and his first step felt like missing a stair even though he knew quite well where the floor was. The air hung heavy with a heady perfume, dark and musky without seeming filthy, different from outside, different from what Alphinaud had _ dumped _ on him downstairs. Here just inside the door all three mixed into a sweet miasma of _ nauseating _ strength, prickling at his nose. He almost turned around again.

But there was only one miqo’te--_ mystel_, he corrected himself--who was obviously a patron and sitting near the door. He crossed to her, plastered on that fake smile, and asked, “Tista-Bie?”

She turned her attention from the stage to regard him. “Welcome to the Beehive, my little drone. Seeking the sting of excitement to liven up your day?” He didn’t know what to say to that. While he groped for a response she leaned forward against the table, sizing him up but not in the way he’d expected. “...Hm hm, I can tell at a glance when folk are new to our happy colony. It's the nervous fluttering, you see─always gives them away.“ Better that she think it nerves than the lights and the smell of the place throwing him for a loop. “Why don't we play some cards to set you at your ease, eh? A quick game of “High or Low”─it's simply a matter of guessing who has the bigger hand.” She produced the deck and flashed it at him before beginning to shuffle. “If you win, I'll grant you a single favor...within reason, of course. Interested?”

Disguising his relief took effort. “Sure.” This was _ far _ better than anything he’d thought might happen in here, and just the offer put him at ease. It was an easy game, too--one she was probably accustomed to winning from the vaguely predatory glint in her eyes.

She further explained the specific rules, letting him be dealt the more generous position, and Aden didn’t need to run through the math in his head it was so simple. There were only so many cards available, after all. He got it right both times, which didn’t feel like much of an accomplishment despite her crooning praise. Conscious of how little he knew of her, he kept his question a testing one--he’d go more rounds or whatever else she required if he felt he could press further.

“In my humble estimation, the most wondrous thing about this town is how safe we are from the sin eaters. They say Lord Vauthry was born with the power to command them─which means no Eulmoran need ever raise a weapon in defense of the city.”

“_Command _ them?” He carefully plastered his smile back on, forced his ears and his tail into a neutral position while his mind raced. Perhaps as those who called voidsent sometimes commanded them for a brief time, which would mean the lord of the city was an iron-willed mage like the master of the Crystarium. It stood to reason that the two bastions of organized civilization left to the world would be run in such a fashion. “How do you mean?”

“I couldn’t say, but does it matter? We’re safe here.” She gave him a patronizing look, as if she thought him motivated by fear, and then added, “If your itch still needs scratching, you might get a few words out of Atharn over there. There's naught that merry sot likes more than the sound of his own voice.“

He followed her gaze across the room to a lanky man sitting with his arm draped behind a woman who looked to be feigning interest in him to a professional degree. "Thanks." 

The man made no note of his approach, and Aden cleared his throat before Atharn gave him so much as a glance. “Excuse me,” he said politely, “Tista-Bie sent me over. I hoped you might answer a few--”

“New to Eulmore, are you?” The man looked him up and down much more hungrily than Tista-Bie had, and Aden stiffened slightly. “You’ve got that look... Tense and lost. Not a bad look on you.” He flashed a smile, and his companion giggled. “Questions, right? That’s what you were about to say?” Atharn laughed, and Aden resigned himself to the fact that Tista-Bie _ really _ hadn’t exaggerated. “Only just arrived and already you're looking to peel away the layers of mystery. Oh, I'm all for chatting, but you need to slow down and enjoy life, my friend!” He shifted to point up at one of the unoccupied platforms overhead. “I tell you what: you hop up on stage and give us a dance first, and then we can have our little talk!”

A flat, annoyed sound escaped him, both ears flicking to the side, before Aden caught himself. “I’d rather not, thanks.”

“Come on, you look like you know your way around a pole.” Atharn quirked a brow at him suggestively, pointedly looking over his shoulder at his slung spear. “What’s wrong, shy? I’m not asking you to take anything off, just show us you know how to cut loose.”

“I’m not much of a dancer.” It wasn’t a lie, merely a lie that it was anything approaching his reason for refusal.

“Listen,” this time the man _ leered_, “with a body like that? _ Nobody _ will be disappointed, whatever you do. But if you can’t let go of your prudishness and have a little fun, you aren’t going to last here.” Atharn folded one arm behind his head, draping the other back over his companion’s shoulders. “And I don’t have the time of day for prudes.”

Aden’s hands clenched into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking, and all the muscles in his arm tensed, his stance shifted subtly, ears pinning back. Back in the Source he’d lay the man out for subtly coming on to him. He didn’t need whatever the man was offering, not _ this _ badly--but he was nobody here. And while that’d been enough of a comfort to walk in, it was a hindrance now. He was _ nobody_, and he couldn’t get away with responding on instinct. He had no idea how long they’d be here, either, and with the way this city seemed to work, would it be _ worse _ to refuse? _ Final pleasures _ certainly implied they expected grand hedonism, and he’d seen nothing to discredit that. He couldn’t know, but he relaxed his stance, pried his fists open.

“Alright,” he said, not bothering to resume his bland smile. “I’ll give it a shot.”

“Attaboy!”

Aden ascended the stairs to the platform Atharn had indicated, body tense to keep himself from giving away the little tells of his agitation. Up top he spared a quick glance around at the other dancers, making note of their movements as he unslung his spear and leaned it against the top of the stairs. It looked _ easy _ compared to what he was accustomed to doing, but doing it to an external rhythm instead of an internal one would be a challenge. If nothing else it required an _ immense _ amount of body control, and once he viewed it from that angle it seemed less about titillation and more about athleticism. He could handle that.

It still _ pissed him off _ to be doing it at all. Aden stripped off his gloves, knowing the plates in them would be a hindrance, and thought about the _ hundreds _ of menial tasks he’d performed for people who had no idea who he was. It was nice to be treated like any other strong looking young person rather than a grand hero, and if he were honest with himself for all his annoyance he _ enjoyed _ helping people. It was how his mothers had raised him, to be generous. He shucked off the armored jacket, too, dropping it to the platform with a heavy metallic sound from the maile. That left him just in Tataru’s artfully tailored padding with most of his arms bare, his half-gloves, and the armored pants and tall boots. Somebody whistled, and his tail lashed in annoyance.

This _ wasn’t _ one of those menial tasks for someone in need. This was the _ opposite _ of that. He felt the faintest edge of that dark fire he’d carried in his breast ever since the Vault, the subtle whisper of deeper power beneath anger. He reached out and wrapped one hand around the pole. They’d get a show, alright. If he couldn’t _ actually _ lash out, they’d fully understand what he was capable of by the time he was done. Aden lifted himself up _ effortlessly _ with one hand, slowly and smoothly so they could tell how _ insignificant _ a thing this was, then flipped hand over hand to wrap his calves around the pole, hanging upside down, and let the muscle memory of combat dictate his movements from there. It wasn’t the same as fighting, didn’t scratch the same itch as battling for his life and spilling blood, or the meditative peace at the height of a jump, or produce that satisfying burn in his limbs. If anything it just left his fingers aching to grip his spear and an unpleasant tension in his tail.

Aden didn’t stay there long, doing what the thought would be _ exactly _ enough to satisfy Atharn’s demands, and to demonstrate he could in all likelihood _ casually _ break the man’s arm if he wanted. From high on the pole he dropped to twist into a three point landing and rise smoothly to his feet.

After picking up his jacket and gloves Aden pointedly turned his back on the rest of the room, ignoring whatever response the scattering of people in the club might have. He shrugged into the jacket without closing it, carefully pulled the gloves on, and grabbed his spear to sling it, only fastening the jacket on his way down the stairs, ears turned from the crowd and tail only moving with his motions to express maximum disinterest. It was a passable workout, and that was the only good thing he could say to himself about it. The sooner he left this place, the better.

But he stopped by Atharn anyroad, who beamed at him and mimed applause. Before he could speak Aden mimicked his earlier tone, “Listen,” and then lower, “I’m done fucking around. You ready to chat?”

“After that _ stimulating _display?” His companion giggled again as he spoke, leaning in, and gave Aden a dreamy look from behind long lashes. “We can talk about any damn thing you want, killer.”

Aden made an exasperated noise, rubbed a hand over his face. This was going to be a _ long _ day.

* * *

It wasn’t until after his excursion into the Understory that Aden returned to Alphinaud and the Chais, hands clenched at his sides and straining to keep his ears and tail in a _ friendly _ position. He wound up looking a little manic instead, especially as he found the Lady Chai musing over additions to Alphinaud’s outfit--apparently they’d been up here playing _ dressup_. “Pardon me, Lord and Lady Chai,” and he sketched them his best Ishgardian courtly bow on rote memory, the sort he would’ve given someone of their station before being made their equal, the sort he now gave members of the House of Commons when trying to embarrass other nobles into _ listening _ to them. “Might I borrow Alphinaud for but a moment?”

“Certainly, my dear,” Dullia beamed at him. “Oh but please, when you return you must tell me what you think of his outfit. Dashing, I told him, but you’ve obviously good taste yourself and I should value your opinion.” And like that she dismissed him from her world, turning back to Nuzz to say, “Now, about the gloves…”

Aden tuned them out as well, gripping Alphinaud by the shoulder as he stood and steering him to a side corridor. He restrained himself for a moment--and then thought better of it. He and Alphinaud had been through a lot, and some of this _ was _ his fault after all. He pushed Alphinaud against the wall, put that hand just above one shoulder to keep him in place, and leaned down, all but _ growling_. “The aether here feels _ sick _ and the Echo has been buzzing like a hive of angry wasps from the _ moment _ we crossed the threshold of this place. I smell like I’ve been dragged backwards through a brothel by the tail, I just did the most _ demeaning _ thing of my _ life_,” that got Alphinaud’s attention, his eyes widening, “and saw a sweet young lady off to a death I can do nothing about. You have _ two bells _ to figure out what to do with what I’m about to tell you before _ I _ do something _ my way_.”

“Do not be hasty,” Alphinaud hissed back. “It has taken me a _ very _long time to work my way into the city.”

Aden continued as if he’d said nothing. “Vauthry controls Sin-Eaters. Makes them docile. By art or artifice, I don’t know, but the people here have formed a godsdamned _ cult _ around him because of it. The reason no one ever leaves is they _ sacrifice _ themselves to the Sin-Eaters. Eaten or transformed, I couldn’t tell you, but they think it’s _ salvation_, that they _ ascend_.” He leaned back, moving his hand from its pin and running it through his hair, tail twitching anxiously and ears swiveling to follow every tiny sound. “There’s something wrong with them. They’re meek as lambs and put up with all manner of indignities. Nobody does this sort of stuff without the slightest complaint.”

“All the more reason to restrain ourselves.” Alphinaud made a sharp gesture at him. “One piece of the puzzle remains, then, and if we are able to lay eyes upon Lord Vauthry perhaps we can determine the source of his control and whether he would be willing to wield it to our aid.”

“_Two bells_,” Aden repeated. “If I spend a whole night in this place I will _ lose my mind_. It feels like walking around inside a perfumed _ corpse_.” His ears perked at a distant sound, and they both jogged out into the plaza to hear screaming. Aden tensed, ready to run towards it, but Alphinaud grabbed his arm and tugged in the direction of the Chais.

Nuzz seemed to have been inspecting Alphinaud’s canvas in consternation when the shout happened, and now hastily motioned them over as the two criers they’d met at the gates walked through the plaza. They both quickened their pace to join him just in time for the announcement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention pleeease: a tale to make you quiver and your noble blood freeze! There was a villain on the loose, set to ruin our fair city…” By their grins they relished the news, or at least couldn’t think straight enough to feel anything else, and Aden suppressed a disgusted sound.

“...But our lord has got him now, and his fate will not be pretty! Yes, the hammer of justice is poised to come crrrashing down! And one and all who'd watch it fall are invited to join his lordship in the Offer!”

Alphinaud turned to speak to their sponsors while Aden watched a crowd make their way towards the lift, burbling excitedly like housespouses over the latest penny dreadful. He sneered at the well-dressed retreating backs rushing off. Announcing an individual’s crimes to the community was one thing, and inviting them to witness a trial another, but this smacked of spectacle. That the punishment was not about rectifying a crime or delivering justice.

“We had best not dawdle.” Alphinaud reached up to grip his shoulder briefly before following the crowd, and Aden trailed close behind, tail twitching in anticipation. 

By fortuitous timing they wound up alone in the lift, and Aden muttered, “Sounds like a public execution. This place gets more and more charming with each passing moment.”

“Restrain yourself, please. I know this is difficult, but….”

“Are we going to let someone die for the off chance that this _ fucked up _ city will extend us a hand in truce?” Aden leaned one shoulder against the wall of the lift, tail lashing furiously behind him. “Sorry. I know the answer. And I’ll behave myself. I just spent too godsdamn long fighting this entitled _ chocoboshit _ in Ishgard.”

“Speaking of,” Alphinaud said by way of distraction, and Aden _ knew _ it but didn’t press, “what are they doing about your seat? I know previously they had made a motion to permit you to vote via linkpearl, but now…”

“I’m a standing abstain for the duration,” Aden answered. “Though at this point… it might have been wiser to step down. I don’t have the heart for politics or the manners for the House of Lords, and arguing through an intermediary is useless. If I can’t be there, the coalition can’t use me as a bludgeon, so what’s the point?”

The lift doors opened, cutting off any response Alphinaud might have given, and they pressed their way up to the back of the crowd. Before they were able to properly see into the room the Echo’s low buzz escalated, and Aden flinched, looking over his shoulder--but no one was there. The reason became apparent once the Offer came into proper view: several Sin-Eaters sat docile around the perimeter of the room, including a great hulking _ beast _ against which the lord of the city himself reclined as if it were a cherished pet. And then came a familiar cry, which set both of them pushing through the crowd.

To find their ill-suited thief kneeling in the center of the room, bloodied and pleading for his life. Neither of them stopped, drawing up to flank him, and while Alphinaud knelt to check his wound Aden remained standing, reaching back to place a hand on his spear and ears flat. He did not _ draw_, though. _ Restraint_.

Restraint until the buzz of the Echo became the musical beat that indicated an incoming blow, at least. That was all he silently promised Alphinaud as he stood sentinel.

“Who are these impudent louts? I do not recall requesting their presence.”

Aden let Alphinaud speak for him, all his attention bent on the Sin-Eaters surrounding them. Never once did their vacant gazes turn, meek like the populace, and it was _ deeply _ unnerving. Vauthry’s control over them must be absolute, but their languid stillness only set him on edge. The sick aether of the city was strongest here, that dire oppressive sensation all but overwhelming.

“Eulmore is a city built on love for one's fellow man.” Aden’s attention snapped back to Vauthry. “Those who have naught to give and live only to take are a blight upon our society!”

A dark laugh bubbled out of him, cold and unamused, as the lord of the city continued his rant. When he finished and Alphinaud asked, “_Another way _ meaning what, exactly!?” Aden shook his head, grinning madly.

“It’s the oldest, sickest damn joke--a pound of flesh, right? A pound of flesh to feed your _ hounds _?” Aden gestured with his unoccupied hand at the Sin-Eaters sitting around the edge of the room.

For a moment those watery blue eyes turned on him, and Aden matched that glower with his own righteous ferocity, refusing to back down. Vauthry continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “Sin eaters are part of Eulmore's society. But they must be fed with aether─living aether.” Aden made another gesture with his free hand, a little rotation of his wrist as if insisting the man get on with it.

“They’re all the same,” Aden muttered under his breath. “I go to another _ bloody _ star and they’re _ all the same_.” He almost turned his back on Vauthry out of principle, but didn’t dare--if he commanded these creatures, then _ he _ was the most dangerous thing in the room. He didn’t turn away when Alphinaud finally got the hint and knelt to tend to Kai-Shirr, nor did he take his hand from his spear, but at some point he began to growl, a low, bestial sound. The longer Vauthry went on, the more Aden wanted to sink his spear into flesh. When Alphinaud helped Kai-Shirr up off the floor it was both a relief and a _ disappointment_, but he finally turned his back on Vauthry with all the haughty dismissiveness he could muster.

Once they’d pushed through the crowd he took over for shoring Kai-Shirr up, as despite the healing he looked ready to pitch over. More than blood loss, Aden suspected, probably shot nerves--it’d been a matter of bells since they sent the man in to his near-doom, and now he walked back out leaning on Aden’s shoulder.

Alive, at least. Aden let that happy ending soothe his own nerves, even as he remained alert to potential threats.

* * *

They returned to the Crystarium in relative silence, each _ brooding _ in his own way. As soon as they landed and Alphinaud unsteadily got his land legs he said, “Come, we must speak with the Exarch and chart a new course. This is far from over... “

“_You _ can speak with the Exarch.” Aden had had quite _ enough _ of the Tower by this point, and didn’t want to _ consider _ the bloody thing, let alone walk into it. Not after the day they’d just had. “_I _ need another godsdamned _ shower_.” And then he meant to head straight out to Amh Araeng, where perhaps he’d get to _ hit _ something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Can you tell I still miss Ring of Thorns?


	3. Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G'raha Tia was a selfish man; the Exarch is not.
> 
> And yet all it takes to remember is two simple words in the right voice.

The Exarch made his request of Lyna, and passed to the guard through her: absolutely no one but her was to enter the Tower for the next few hours, and herself only in an emergency or should any of his guests return. He had dangerous work to do, and would not put any of her subordinates at risk--so he told her.

His Allagan ancestors had left all manner of strange and wondrous devices in the Tower… and some far more mundane. His connection to the Tower granted him knowledge of their purpose, but not always their function. The training hall was, interestingly enough, one of the first safe areas he'd uncovered after transferring the Tower. Fortunately the sparring automatons--he wasn't sure what else to call them--were rather simple machines, and though it had been decades since he powered one up it shook off the dust quite well. He called up a sword and shield of aether, adjusting the shape of the grip slightly as he tested it, then gave the command word to activate the automaton.

Three blows in his hood fell back, and he quickly tugged it into place. This was as much a test of how well he could conceal his identity in melee as a refresher course in swordplay. It wouldn't do to reveal himself, not when so much work remained.

And yet how he wished he could. Aden's question came as a genuine surprise, and he had to remind himself that it may have been a hundred years in his perception, but only a scarce few for Aden. He'd not dared dream to leave a mark on Aden's memory like that, as the expedition took mere moons betwixt his first forays into Ishgard, his long-lost homeland and the place where he met the love of his life. At best the Exarch expected to be a footnote. His hood fell back again, and he tugged it forward once more.

Yet the neutral, bland mask had broken for a split second in his voice. "_Then G'raha Tia is…?" _

_ The question caught him off guard, but he kept his voice steady even as his heart hammered inside his chest. _ "_...I am not familiar with that name. Is there something I should know?" _

_ "He… was a scholar," Aden said. "I assisted him in an expedition to explore the Tower, and he determined it was a danger so he sealed it. With himself inside. It was something only he could do." His voice held the weight of words considered but unspoken, and the Exarch desperately wanted to know _ what, _ but to press risked betraying himself. And G'raha Tia was dead besides, save the version of him still sleeping a dreamless sleep in the Tower of Aden’s time. Only the Crystal Exarch remained. Aden looked away from him, mismatched eyes briefly searching the ornate walls of Ocular for something unseen. _

He took a blow hard across his shield, striking with bruising force, and he snarled, lunging at the automaton in a brutal surge. What _ right _ had his heart to break and sing both at the sorrow in his old friend's eyes? What _ right _ had his darkest of desires to resurface now, with his goal finally within sight? His hood fell back. G'raha Tia, the young man who had admired the Warrior of Light so, had missed his chance when he _ foolishly, impulsively _ locked himself in the Tower. When he'd taken two hundred years of sleep and the death of the man who might have been the best friend he'd had in his pathetic life to realize the truth in his heart. What _ right _ had Aden to _ say his name like that, _like hope long held but scarce looked for?

The automaton reached its damage tolerance and returned to its storage pod, deactivating. He wasn't _ done _ though, not if he meant to stand between his dear friend and aught that might wound him further. Not if he meant to wear out this ache in his heart with an ache in his limbs. He activated the next one, and charged it with wild abandon, vision blurring with unshed tears. He lost himself in motion, several decades of simmering fury at himself finally exploding out on the hapless machines. Every selfish desire he would kill: there could be only the purity of love for his people, love for his friend, and no hesitation when the time came, no stray _ want _ to stumble over on his path. Nothing he would leave for himself; all for the First, for the Source.

"My Lord?"

He didn't turn, not wanting to show his face even though Lyna had seen it many times. G'raha Tia was _ dead _, already sacrificed and buried deep in his heart when he had finally understood what his mission necessitated, and neither his face nor his craving heart had any right to see the light of day. His ears pinned back, shaking, but he managed to keep tears from his voice. "Yes, Captain?"

"Is… aught amiss?"

He looked down the line of storage pods. Several were sealed now with damaged automatons inside, and one had been too ruined to make it back. He felt a twinge of guilt at that, and wondered how long he'd been at it. His muscles ached in a familiar way that he hadn't known in a long time, and he felt… weary. Enough to sleep, for once.

"Nothing that can be helped," he answered.

"...Then you should be aware Alphinaud Leveilleur and Aden Dellebecque have returned from Kholusia."

"So soon? I suppose should expect nothing less of Aden's efficiency."

"Shall I delay them?"

"Please." He dismissed the sword and shield, and pulled up his hood. "But only for a few moments. I shan't take long to compose myself."

The Exarch felt her eyes on him, so he turned, smiling, and glad of his deep cowl to hide his eyes. "Worry not, Lyna. All will be well in time."

She saluted him and left without another word. He knew she didn't believe him, but it really was true. This wretched longing would fuel the pyre he meant to make of himself, the Calamity forestalled, and Aden would live, and all _ would _be well.


	4. The Time Left to Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amh Araeng proves a test of will and a long meditation in emptiness and death.

_ Starving coyotes _ weren’t exactly what Aden had in mind when he’d immediately set out for Amh Araeng with the vague ambitions of _ find Alisaie _ and _ sink his spear into something still moving around _, and he almost felt bad for them. If they were anything like the ones back home they were scavengers first and all else second, so if they’d resorted to preying on travelers they were well and truly desperate. Knowing that he made the roads safer didn’t make it better.

The company was pleasant, at least. He was content to let Tesleen’s anecdotes about Alisaie’s misadventures wash over him between the unpleasant, bloody work. She had an openness about her he appreciated, and while Alisaie had clearly built him up in her mind she didn’t seem to expect more conversation than he was willing to give. It was nice. He had few words in him right now.

They crested a ridge, and he looked down past the Inn to the ruins beyond. The desert felt vast and empty, bigger than him in a barely comprehensible way, quiet but for the gentle hum of sand blown from dunes. It was cooler than Thanalan, more like the Gyr Abanian highlands, but impossibly dry and wide as the sky. He wanted that feeling inside of him, to be _ that _ for a moment, just the silence and the sleeping earth. The thought soothed the turmoil inside him, and Tesleen’s cheerful but unexpectant manner didn’t intrude on his solitude.

Still, when they arrived and Tesleen sent him off in search of Alisaie, he was glad for the moment alone. Even though Alisaie was nowhere to be found he climbed her watchtower, staring up at the great wall of crystal in the distance. It all but writhed with that uncomfortable _ press, _ aether heavy and still, winds utterly dead. When he swung a hand through the air experimentally it almost seemed to _ push back. _ The tip of Aden's tail twitched in consideration.

This entire star was, to put it quite bluntly, _ fucked _ . Without more information Aden failed to see how he could effect change on the scale necessary to right it. Obviously the Exarch had some idea, otherwise he would not have gone to the effort of summoning Aden. It couldn't have been easy. He was no master of any of the more arcane methods of manipulating aether, only a dabbler and a scholar where it did not relate to melee disciplines or the blessing, but he had some vague idea of the immense power and control necessary to interact with the Rift after his encounter with Omega. His mysterious summoner could _ not _have risked such a thing without a clear way forward.

It'd been wise of the Exarch to send Aden out into the field to experience this for himself and to give him time to think. He wondered which of the Scions had counseled him on it.

_ What if he’s-- _

Aden crushed that thought under the weight of anger before it had a chance to fully form. Sentimentality would only distract him, and he’d already asked that question. The only way forward was _ through _ this whole Twelve-forsaken realm and out the other side.

But first, Alisaie. He descended the watch tower to investigate a patch of disturbed sand that looked promising.

When at length he found her careening off some ruins at a fleeing sin eater, he briefly wondered if she might be a mirage. It wouldn't be the first time he'd seen things while wandering alone. But no, that was most certainly her. He sped up to assist her, but she dispatched the creature handily and spun on her heel to greet him.

"I expected no less," he said, granting her a slight quirk of his lips and just a little pride in his voice.

"Just a lesser sin eater. Nothing to write home about." She sheathed her sword with a bit of a flourish regardless. "I knew you'd turn up sooner or later, but I had been hoping for sooner."

"I’ve been led to understand making the crossing isn’t an exact science.” Aden folded his arms, began slowly counting in his head--

“_ Gods! _ That’s an understatement. Can you believe it? Just _ snatching _ us up like that? And of all the times--” The tip of Aden’s tail twitched in amusement as Alisaie went off. It took a long moment before she finally got to, “Frustrated as I am, I cannot say I _ regret _ what he has done. We can talk about that later, though. How are you?”

Aden left out the choicest details of his summoning--that first solid contact had left him vulnerable at the worst possible moment and only Estinien and Aymeric’s intervention had saved his life. If Alisaie was as mad at their summoner as she seemed, he didn’t want to encourage further antagonism until he knew more about the man’s intent and motives. It would not do to alienate an ally, and similarly to let an enemy know the trap was discovered.

She gave him the lay of the land and then some, and at length they agreed to split up again to finish the patrol. The sin eaters he encountered were weak things, and he spotted them from so far away the Echo never beat a warning before he launched himself into the sky and came upon them spear first. It still wasn’t _ enough _, not the resistance he wanted to meet the power behind his blows, not the fraught conflict he sought to place him wholly in the moment and soothe his nerves. He had only the vast, uncaring silence of the desert for that.

By the time he stepped into the sheltering shade of the rock formation encircling the Inn he felt less vile and twisted inside, emptier. It was both worse and better.

And _ worse _ when Tesleen started in on her teasing of Alisaie. Aden had noticed her _ admiration _ quite some time ago, and carefully avoided the topic. He respected Alisaie as a colleague, and anything else was… inappropriate, for a whole _ host _ of reasons.

“I'm only teasing! Though I've no doubt he deserves all the admiration he gets. Just as you do.”

Alisaie spluttered for a moment, obviously grasping for something to redirect the conversation, and finally settled on, “Aden, just how long has it been since you arrived in the Crystarium?”

He noted her careful word choice, but struggled to come up with his own equally non-specific response. “I’m not sure.”

“Not sure?”

Aden made a vague gesture with one hand up at the sky, keeping it low so as not to draw too much attention, and hoped she understood. They didn’t seem to have different tribes of _ mystel _, and he didn’t want to give too much away by explaining one more way in which he was slave to his biology.

“Well if you went to see my brother first, so you made the trip to and from Kholusia, and presumably spent quite a bit of time there from what you told me, then the flight here and the trip out from Mord Souq…” She bowed her head and put a hand to her chin in a familiar, thoughtful look. “Four days, perhaps five?”

“That seems rather generous.” Aden schooled the incredulity from his voice. It wasn’t impossible, but even considering his difficulties here that seemed like a _ great _ deal of time to lose track of. He could count the number of meals he’d had on one hand, and it was a long time to go without sleep, even for him. Perhaps the blessing was picking up the slack, or that fine edge of irritation craving a fight was in truth the dark fire burning to keep him going.

“How did you find the Crystarium?” Tesleen asked. “I always thought it was so beautiful, but it’s been so long since I’ve been.”

“It is,” Aden opted for diplomatic agreement, unwilling to tell her he’d spent most of his time in the city glaring daggers at the back of his summoner’s hood on their supposed tour. “It seemed… peaceful.”

“Would that we could house our patients there, where they would be protected and in better comfort.” She gave a small sigh, looking out over the camp. “But then what would we do, if we… Oh, nevermind. Alisaie, would it be too much trouble to ask you to share your tent?”

“None at all--it won’t be the first time. Come along, I’ll show you where you can stow your gear before the evening meal.”

* * *

When Aden didn’t dig into his bowl of stew right away Alisaie glowered. He drummed his spoon against the side of the bowl anxiously, looking away from her, and finally she said, “Really, Aden? Here, of all places?”

“Is something wrong?” Tesleen asked, and when Aden glanced up at her he caught the concern in her eyes and looked away from her, too.

“He doesn’t--gods, _ really _, I can’t believe I’m explaining this--he doesn’t normally take food from people he doesn’t know. How have you eaten at all the entire time you’ve been here?” When he didn’t dignify that with an answer she sighed dramatically. “He’s been poisoned before.”

“You can’t be serious. Who would do such a thing?” He didn’t need to look up at Tesleen to imagine the surprise on her face.

“Someone who thought they were doing the right thing,” he said, looking past the fire and out into the bright hell that passed for night here. It was kind of Alisaie not to mention that he’d been framed for the poisoning of an ally as well.

“Well I’ll fix this, then.” A spoon plunked heavily into his bowl, and he looked up to see Tesleen shovel a hearty helping into her own mouth. After she’d swallowed she waggled the spoon at him, grinning. “There, if we go, we all go together!”

“Oh, you’re an idiot,” he muttered, but he reluctantly began eating after that.

“That means he likes you,” Alisaie clarified. “He only starts insulting people for their reckless behavior if he cares.”

Tesleen laughed, a hearty, pleasant sound, and sat down with her own bowl. “I’m proud to be one of your idiots, then. But I’ll have you know,” she waggled her spoon at him again, “I cooked this start to finish. So you may rest assured that if there is any poison, I’ve only used something I built up a tolerance to.”

“Now she tells me.” But somehow her acknowledgement of how _ ridiculous _ it was even after taking it seriously helped. Because it was ridiculous, and he _ felt _ ridiculous, to treat someone he knew to be a close friend of an ally as if they were a stranger and a potential threat. It got another laugh out of Tesleen, and he smiled in spite of himself.

“Speak up if you'd like another helping. I made a little bit more than usual today.” 

He didn’t right away, letting their conversation wash over him for a moment. This was more restful than anything he’d done since arriving, being part of something but not front and center, and even by the fire and next to their chattering he could feel the vastness of the desert around him. Normally he disliked that open, exposed feeling, but that was _ outside _. It’d been a long time since he’d been in a place like this, with the highland desert of Ala Mhigo surrounded by prisoning hills, and Thanalan full of unpleasant memories. That emptiness felt strangely comforting now, and he wanted to take it into himself. To become as the desert, and to feel only that for a time.

When Tesleen began to speak of her mother his ears shifted her direction, and he gave her his attention as was proper. It was a grave but strangely hopeful story, one that made Aden wonder how many of the patients came with family, and how many came alone.

"You've never heard the tale? I'm not sure where it began, but every child in Norvrandt could tell you a version of it." She closed her eyes and bowed her head, the softest smile gracing her face. "Warrior of Darkness, servant of death; take care of our souls at our dying breath…; Let sinners and eaters of sin go with thee; that all may return to the sunless sea.” Tesleen paused a moment before she opened her eyes again, sounding almost apologetic when she spoke. "...Well, that's the version I was taught anyway. It's just an old bedtime story─he's certainly never deigned to visit us here."

"Which is a good thing, surely? He sounds rather ominous."

"Do you think so? I always liked the idea that he treated every soul the same, even the sin eaters."

Had Ardbert--what, been some sort of psychopomp this whole time? "No," he said softly, "it's a comforting idea. That no matter what, someone will walk with you at the end." Perhaps it was a story and nothing more, but the wording resonated with him in a strange and sad way.

"Right," Tesleen said. "That no one will ever truly be alone, even in the one place we cannot follow. Someone will go with them where we can't."

Somehow they managed to turn the conversation away from the macabre, but Aden's mind remained fixed on the idea. He knew he'd go on the battlefield, if the blessing and the dark fire _ let _ him die--which apparently they could--but he had no one like Tesleen had been to her mother. Everyone he walked into danger alongside he kept at cordial arm's length, and even surrounded by allies… he would go alone. He imagined no guiding spirit awaited one with the blessing, expected as in all journeys to wend his own way. Perhaps if he were lucky he would return to the mothercrystal, but that would be little comfort.

The thought of his own death bothered him more than ever before, for a man who regularly flung himself into danger with no regard for life or limb. But it wasn't dying that upset him. It never had.

_ Why did you have to go without me? _

He squeezed the bowl in his hands hard enough for the rim to dig painfully into his flesh in a vain attempt to drive off the feeling of a hand held in both of his, grip growing ever more lax with each passing moment. For a time he was--elsewhere, a cold stone settling into his heart as the light left his love's eyes. When he felt as if he'd break apart, but no such mercy ever came.

It was somewhere he couldn't be, not even so long after the fact. Aden excused himself, leaving the half-finished bowl behind, and wandered past the gates.

Would that he could be empty as the desert. 

* * *

Rest eluded him but in brief bursts marked by dark memories, as it had these past several days. His body rebelled at the idea that _ light _ remained in the sky, seeker nature so keyed into the cycle of day and night that he managed no more than a fitful doze. It wasn't the cruelest way in which his biology held mastery over him, but it was growing ever more frustrating and _ worrisome _since Alisaie had puzzled out the passage of time for him. Aden felt full of restless energy besides, and with nothing to distract himself he rose at what he assumed to be an early hour.

"Have you slept at all since you arrived?" Alisaie mumbled sleepily, but she didn't roll over, and her breathing evened back out immediately.

At least sharing bedding meant he'd made concessions to propriety, and didn't need to disturb her further by dressing. Nevermind that he wore the loose pants and soft shirt as much to conceal his scars from the curious gaze of those who had not yet seen them, Alisaie included. He didn't need their well meaning concern. The damage was done, the aftereffects mitigated. It let him keep the dampeners in a pocket besides, and though it diminished their effect it permitted him to rise without difficulty.

Maybe he should do this every night.

Aden grabbed his spear and wandered out past the gates again, looking for open space. Knowing the strength of the sin eaters here, he didn't fear being caught without his armor. And it had been _ many days, _ apparently, since he had last done this.

Aden began at the beginning, closing his eyes and effortlessly settling into a lancer's basic stance. He moved through those most basic exercises, forcing himself out of muscle memory to concentrate on the perfection of each. Every day he could he began like this, as an apprentice. When it felt natural he transitioned into the forms of a candidate dragoon, those exercises that prepared the body for the stress of a jump, and for landing with one's natural momentum many times increased.

His spear struck metal, and he opened his eyes to find Tesleen standing at the length of it, sword in hand and easily meeting the weight of his practice blow. "My hands aren't full this time," she said, smirking confidently.

Aden withdrew, admonishment on his tongue at how _ dangerous _what she'd just done was. But instead he said, "Are you sure? Sword against spear?"

"It won't be the first time. Come on, let me show you what I've got to make up for yesterday."

He relaxed into a lancer’s stance, and she wasted no time, coming at him with a cry of joy and an unassailable fury. By no means was he hard pressed, but she fought brutally, and without the Echo beating out it's usual warning he was reduced to pure skill. No blessing availed him here, only speed and strength of arms.

"You're playing with me!" She panted behind a precise strike that would've been devastating against an enemy. He turned it easily on the haft of his spear, then while she was over balanced dropped his spear low to sweep her legs out from under her. Tesleen toppled onto her back in the sand with an, "Oof!"

Aden planted the butt of his spear and leaned down, grinning, to offer her a hand up

"If I am, it's only because you're worth playing with." She reached up to grab his arm and pulled--

Then braced her legs against him and rolled to _ throw _ him. Aden went tail over ears through the air, landing in a puff of sand, dazed not from the blow but in disbelief. She fought like a well trained mercenary but he was the _ godsdamned Warrior of Light-- _

Aden burst out laughing, loud and strange to his own ears. He forgot the heavy, cold stone where his heart should be for a moment, overwhelmed by mirth at what just transpired. He'd earned that ass kicking fair and square, and it delighted him to find it in someone so obviously his junior in fighting skill. It spoke highly of her adaptability, her ability to analyze her enemy and her situation. Perhaps she was more than she seemed.

Tesleen leaned over him, the curtain of her long hair hanging down over one shoulder. "There it is," she said, smiling brightly. "Is this really where you keep it?"

It took a moment, but Aden sobered under the weight of her question. "It's the only place I can forget, and the only way I can keep it all from happening again."

"That's sad," she said, still smiling. "But I understand." She offered him a hand up, and as he took it he harbored no doubt that she _ did _ understand. She turned and took a few steps from him, flipping her hair back out of the way. "Well," she said, imperious as a sultana delivering an edict, "I have another half bell before I need to see to patients. If you promise to help me, I will indulge this vice of yours." Tesleen turned back to him, eyes glittering with mischief as she took a different stance.

Aden drew into a dragoon's stance this time, grinning madly. She didn't wait for an answer. 

* * *

Helping Tesleen make her morning rounds with the patients turned out to be just as meditative as wandering in the desert the evening before had been. Aden had to step outside himself, to occupy a familiar/unfamiliar space of compassion and servitude. Tesleen’s gentle manner served as a guide, and as they went along that ugly snarl in him from his journey across the Rift and from Kholusia untangled further.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve done this before,” she said to him as they cleaned up, head bowed low and close to his.

“I’ve spent my fair share of time convalescing in infirmaries,” Aden answered. “And I get restless. It was learn to help or lose my mind.”

“You’re a healer too, then?” She leaned back a little, looking surprised and searching his face for something.

“No.” Aden shook his head. “Just an assistant.”

“Well, _ assistant _ . Nurse? Can I call you that?” She gave him a cheeky grin, and didn’t wait for his response. “ _ Nurse _ Aden. I have a job for you and Alisaie today. Something… rather important.” Her expression faltered, gaze cast down. “I believe she wanted to take you back to Mord Souq. Would you pick up a nectarine from the markets, please? Cassard's caravan just passed through, so Rhon Ron should have some fresh fruit.”

He didn’t ask why it was so grave, just nodded, trusting she would explain in time as she had with everything else.

“Thank you.” When she looked up she didn’t quite make eye contact, looking somewhere over his shoulder instead. “You should probably get going soon, just in case. I’ll finish up here while you get ready.”

* * *

Aden returned with an even better understanding of the Light thanks to Alisaie, and a dark gift: he meant to be Tesleen’s Warrior of Darkness, if only this once. Halric was a _ child _, and horrible as the deed was… he would not suffer her to do it, if she would allow it. He would not deny her this if she saw it as her duty, but make a compelling argument. He knew mercy when he saw it, and one more life would be nothing on his conscience.

_ But it is, it always is, even as you crave that resistance beneath your spear and to fight for your life and assert your mastery do not deny that every life taken is the first all over again. _

He clenched his hands into fists against the thought, the first intrusive one in quite some time, that simmering edge of dark fire beneath it. This was _ his _ duty, to take these burdens onto himself, and if he could spare Tesleen this heartache he would.

All his plans shattered apart when one of the caregivers came rushing up to them just inside the shelter of the stones. “Halric’s gone missing! Did you see him outside?”

“No,” Alisaie answered. “Gods, we’re too late. Aden--”

But he’d already retrieved the nectarine and handed it over to the caregiver. “We’ll handle it.”

“Tesleen’s already out there!” she shouted after them as they turned and ran back out. They split up on their routes from the previous day by silent agreement, needing no more than a gesture to communicate it.

Now the vast emptiness of the desert _ frustrated _ him. One would think it a simple task to spot a child in the open, but he could not be certain he still looked for a _ child _ . Any of the sin eaters he slew along the way might be the boy, and he had no way of knowing. That he caught up to _ Alisaie _ before he found any definitive sign was disheartening.

She skidded to a stop in the sand beside him, “Any sign of him!?” Aden just shook his head, and she huffed her frustration, sounding out of breath. “No luck, then. But he surely can't have gone far. We should keep looking. The sin eaters are out in force, and if we don't find him soon, you can be sure they will.”

The Echo buzzed an indistinct warning the way it had in the Offer in Eulmore, like a whole hive of angry wasps had taken up residence somewhere inside him, and Aden looked up in time to catch a horror in white cresting the cliffs. Elegant wings spread wide, the vaguely hyur-like body the size of some dragons he’d encountered, and a breathy, “_ Shit _,” escaped him as the shadow of it fell upon them.

“Did you see the size of that thing? It must be one of the nasty ones.”

His ears turned Alisaie’s direction even as his eyes continued tracking it, mind reeling through trajectories to determine if he could use the cliff to gain enough height fast enough. “And clearly it’s got somewhere to be.”

“Wherever it's going, it can only mean trouble. After it!” They took off, Aden quickly overtaking her. The indistinct sense of _ threat _ dissipated as soon as it passed out of sight, and he filed that away to stew on later, to figure out _ why _ the Echo reacted like this to the more powerful sin eaters when it rarely registered other foes until they were mid-blow. 

He pulled his spear without stopping at Alisaie’s shouted, “There it is!” seeing the boy unnervingly stock-still before the thing as it raised its sword. Now the Echo no longer buzzed that warning, as if it were _ no threat at all _ , and that worried him more than anything. The slope made a bad angle for a jump, and with the dead, still air and the aetheric _ push _ so strong here it’d make for a difficult landing, but he could clear the distance and--

He caught Tesleen’s movement behind the sin eater just in time to stop himself, and changed course, running for Halric instead as her blade sliced through the creature’s wing. She landed in a slide and shouted at the boy to run. But Halric stood unresponsive, staring blankly. The sin eater’s blade came down, skewering Tesleen in a surge of light.

Alisaie’s scream filled his ears as he skidded to a stop, and she surged forward, past him--he kept his spear in one hand and reached out for the back of her coat with the other, dragging her back and wrapping that arm around her to restrain her. She kicked and railed, trying to rip herself free from his grasp while Tesleen choked out her last words to Halric. As the sin eater finally ripped her blade free Alisaie even tried employing the magic she used to close to an enemy, the sudden motion of it dragging him a few fulms forward. Aden dropped his spear, wrapping his other arm around her and lifting her off the ground.

“We can’t,” he rasped into her ear, voice heavy with emotion. “We can’t--risk drawing attention to Halric.” _ Risk you _. But he knew the truth would only enrage her further.

Alisaie sagged in his arms, repeating over and over her mantra of _ no no no no _ as Tesleen’s body tore itself apart and the cocoon of aether spun around her. He couldn’t look away, fixated by the visceral horror of it, the _ sound _ of sinew ripping and bones snapping from inside it loud to his sensitive hearing even at this distance. When the cocoon cracked open and the _ thing _the light had made of Tesleen’s body clawed its way free traces of her remained, the twisted vision in marbled white enough of a mockery to be recognizable. It was worse than any void-touched or dragonsblood transformation he’d seen, and that oppressive aether pulsed, pushing him against him with an almost physical force.

_ “Forgive me...Alisaie…” _

Alisaie began struggling in his arms again, trying to pull herself free as the sin eater made off with its prize in tow. Halric remained motionless, only shifting to watch them go. Aden slumped to the ground with Alisaie in his arms, only letting her go when he knew the sin eaters were out of range of her magic. She doubled over, sobbing, and he merely sat, helpless, staring at where they’d disappeared over the cliffs.

No, he didn’t want to be empty like the desert. Empty like Halric. Empty… like Tesleen probably was, now. Empty enough to let Alisaie run blindly to her death. That dark fire rose in him, and even as it whispered _ you did the right thing _in a voice so like his own he slammed a first into the sand.

_ I’ll find what remains of you, Tesleen, and grant you the mercy you deserve. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They did a great job with Tesleen, giving her a lot of personality in a short amount of time, but I wanted something more. I wanted it to be more personal. Perhaps she could've been an ally.
> 
> Perhaps.


	5. The Lightwardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warrior of Light finds something unexpected in Holminster Switch. Something that should disturb him far more than it does.
> 
> An equal.

Aden felt wrung out by the time they returned to the Crystarium, mentally and emotionally exhausted by everything he'd learned and been unable to stop. If anything it only made him more determined, and he deliberately engaged that undercurrent of dark power to keep himself more alert. But it left him irritated, eager to fight, and so he said as little as possible to keep the peace with his allies and his summoner. Thankfully the Exarch seemed willing to let him be--though that frustrated him in its own way. He lacked the formal Sharlayan education of the Scions, and was no master of the arcane, but it made him no less a scholar or a tactician. It seemed as ever his chief value was as a _ bludgeon. _Hero, indeed.

"Agreed. Thus we will need to occupy or otherwise divert his forces whilst we proceed with the business of eliminating the Wardens."

"That's no small task," Aden finally offered. "I was able to survey Eulmore's military headquarters…" He rattled off some troop and armament estimates based on what he'd seen.

The Exarch turned to him, and despite the cowl Aden had the distinct impression that he had the man's undivided attention. It was an uncomfortable sensation, as if for a moment the Exarch regarded him as the only person in the world. "How accurate do you believe those numbers to be?"

"Very," he answered. "It was obvious most of the force wasn't deployed. If you can marshal Lakeland in addition to what you've got here you might succeed for a time, but unless you employ some lateral strategies we'll be making a race of it."

"I fear that will be the case regardless of what forces or strategies we employ, but I think you will find the Crystarium's soldiers well versed in unconventional tactics." He smiled, something proud in it. "But our chief concern remains dealing with the Lightwardens. Until we have done so, all other considerations must be set aside if we are to forestall the Eighth Umbral Calamity." 

“Just like that?” Aden crossed his arms over his chest, “I’d say it sounds too easy but you haven’t said what all this entails.”

He finally looked away from Aden, hood tilting slightly as he regarded the twins. "Perhaps a more detailed explanation is in order. To begin at the beginning, then…"

The Exarch tapped his staff against the floor and a deep tone sounded, accompanying a wash of aether that painted the room in a beautiful night sky, motes of light resolving into fourteen spheres of various detail, one wrapped in a starry crown. The Exarch's smile turned practically giddy, like a child showing off a marvelous toy. And Aden couldn't blame him--the projection was nothing short of _ artistry _. He turned, trying to take in the fine details, to determine where the mechanisms lie, grinning in spite of himself. If he'd had something like this when the Botanists' Guild invited him to lecture--

The Exarch began speaking again, and Aden's ears turned his direction before the rest of him followed. _ Speaking _of lectures--but he glossed over the familiar topic of the shards, and explained the mechanics of the calamities precisely, plainly, without speaking condescendingly, though he was rather dramatic about the whole thing. Then again, the fraught topic justified some drama, as did the spectacular visual aid at his disposal. “...Thus, if we are to restore balance to the First and head off a potential calamity, it is imperative that we put each and every Lightwarden to the sword.”

Aden frowned slightly at that, but he accepted it. It seemed outlandish that individual creatures might be the source of a calamity, but if it only required sufficient threat to life… well, there wasn’t a lot of life left in this place. In the number of people or in the very land itself.

“We've been doing our best to take the fight to the enemy ever since we first heard the Exarch's explanation.” Alisaie sounded almost apologetic, voice strained on _ doing our best _.

“Though we have yet to claim any meaningful victories, if truth be told. Apart from being confoundingly elusive, the Lightwardens possess a troublesome quality which compelled us to delay our plans until such time as you arrived.”

Aden turned his attention to Alphinaud, and began to ask, “Which would--” but for the door burst open. They all turned to find Lyna, breathing hard as if she’d run all the stairs from the doors of the Tower.

She wasted no time waiting for acknowledgement. “Forgive the interruption, my lord, but Holminster Switch is requesting reinforcements! They say the sin eaters are attacking in force, and the village could soon be overrun.”

Alphinaud and Alisaie ran off without hesitation, and Aden felt a little spark of pride at that. Not so much as a by your leave. They were learning.

“Alert the guard. We should be prepared in case the fighting reaches the Crystarium. You have command of our forces in the field, Captain, but hold off on entering the town until I arrive. That goes for Alphinaud and Alisaie as well.”

Lyna saluted and took her leave, dashing off after the twins. Aden didn’t follow immediately, half-turning back to the Exarch. “You mean to fight?”

“For my people? Without hesitation.” The Exarch tilted his chin up slightly, a haughtier look than Aden had seen so far, as if the implication offended him. It lasted only an instant, fleeing for his previous humility. “I would not ask of you anything that I myself would be unwilling to face alongside you. Pray, lend us your strength. Such a fight will provide you with far greater insight than any explanation I could offer.”

Something in his tone bothered Aden, raw and exposed rather than posturing. “You already called me here,” he answered. “May as well make use of me.”

The Exarch’s lips quirked into a frown, and he moved to Aden’s side, falling into step as they left. “You need not say it so. I did, yes, but the choice remains yours.”

It was almost worse when the people who used him grew half a conscience after the fact. Aden gave a small huff of a sigh and said instead, “How about, time to do what I do best?”

He didn’t seem to like that either, but kept that counsel to himself, and they made for the gates in an uncomfortable, grim silence.

* * *

In the end they _ all _ went, the Exarch adamant despite Lyna's protest, and Lyna unwilling to leave him unescorted. It spoke well of her that she mistrusted his _ guests _ while it betrayed how little she'd been told. Then again, if he were in her position he wouldn't give a damn if Halone Herself showed up to handle things, he still wouldn't abandon a charge.

Alisaie and Alphinaud fell into familiar patterns easily, as if no time had passed at all--of course for _ Aden _ it hadn’t, but the twins were ever eager to play their parts as shadows in his wake. Lyna carried herself with a soldier’s confidence, and a soldier Aden could predict--he’d commanded enough during the end of the Dragonsong War and the campaign in Ala Mhigo. But the Exarch worried him, the unknown quantity--the charlatan, the obvious liar, the one who took great risks in spite of their consequences. Had his efforts killed anyone thusfar? Had _ he _ perhaps had a part in making all this, and was it _ guilt _ that drove him so hard to undo it?

Aden was content to leave him behind with the twins to keep an eye on him--they could spare the attention between spells while Aden entertained their foes--and he did just that. When the insistent pressure of the Echo built up to a crescendo warning he shifted to dodge the swipe of a giant bear turned sin eater’s claws just as a flash of red and black and white and crystal swept past him--and there was the Exarch, a shield of aether stretched overhead and a sword to match in his other hand. For the briefest moment Aden’s heart stopped, the pose achingly familiar, and he was--elsewhere, somewhere cold, shielding his eyes from blazing light even while he pressed a hand to his love’s back as metal began to screech and tear, as if he could _ will _ more strength into that shield--the Exarch threw off the attack easily and Aden’s arms shook slightly as he finished off the eater.

“My apologies.” The Exarch inclined his robed head to Aden in what was becoming a familiar gesture. “I should have given you warning, but I dared not risk distracting you or delaying my intervention.”

“I appreciate it.” He didn’t mention that he’d known the eater’s moves before it made them--it might be a useful secret to keep, if none of the Scions had yet betrayed it. “I thought you were a mage?”

“Ah.” With a little smile tugging at the corners of his lips, the Exarch shrugged. “I have been many things, all of them needful, in my time. Suffice to say I can be to you whatever you require in the moment.”

Aden tilted his chin up slightly at that, wondering how he might challenge the presumption, but elected not to address it further as they pressed on. The scene quickly grew too grim for banter as they left the forest behind for eerily quiet fields. It felt _ good _ to be behind a spear, the shifting weight and the flow of battle a familiar comfort in a strange world full of unique horrors. The meditative calm he often found at the height of a jump or in the heat of a pitched battle suffused him, the Echo’s insistent warnings beating a rhythm to warn of each impending blow, a beat in time with the rising song within him.

They found their horror in white from Amh Araeng. Alisaie charged boldly in, forcing Aden to jump to clear the distance before her and draw the creature’s attention. He came down across its back, spear raking a devastating path between its wings, and Alisaie’s fire burst upon it an instant later--followed closely by the Exarch’s shield slamming into it, the blow shifting its massive bulk enough for Aden to take advantage of in a second blow, setting his spear. Alphinaud and Lyna drew in, keeping their distance but close enough. So he released that building song in a wave of aether two fold: first the tingling, eager power so like the breath and blood of his order’s namesakes; and the song itself, silent but where it found root in a receptive heart. The twins he knew to be familiar with it, but he spared a glance for Lyna to see if it rang true--and yet her step did not change.

But the Exarch’s _ did _ , faltering for a split second. Aden rolled beneath the seraphic terror’s bulk and caught her blow on the haft of his spear. By the time he had done so the Exarch recovered, of all things a _ smile _ on his face. When Aden took a step, so did he in perfect complement. When Aden struck a blow, the Exarch soon followed, such that between the two of them they made a frenzy that fully occupied its attention, leaving it wide open for Alisaie and Lyna. Even when they smote the creature to the ground between the five of them and surged on, and the strength of the song faded, the Exarch moved as if he yet heard it, in such perfect tandem that amidst the din of battle they began to all but _ dance _. Though the Echo gave him no warnings not related to immediate danger Aden found he didn’t need to pay any mind at all to the Exarch’s movements or actions. He knew where the man was without looking, knew every tiny shift he made before he made it, and the Exarch seemed to know the same of Aden. It was comfortable, strangely intimate, something shared only with someone you had fought alongside for years and absolutely trusted--something he had yet to achieve with any of the Scions, even the twins.

These lesser sin eaters proved little challenge before the combined might of their group, but _ oh _ , it felt good to be behind a spear, for solid resistance to meet a blow, to hear that steady warning beat of the Echo rather than feel it racking the inside of his skull as it did with a full vision, to feel the blissful power of the dragon coursing through his veins and the song rising to warm that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be. Aden fought grinning, in spite of himself, in spite of their situation, even as he dove into a pack of sin eaters to occupy them while Lyna and the Exarch directed fleeing survivors down the swathe they’d cut. The longer their fighting stretched on the _ freer _ he felt, from concern, from strife within, from need. He made a poetry of motion from the sin eaters’ lifeblood.

Only the sight of what had become of Tesleen dropped that weight back into place. Aden slowed his charge, letting Alisaie catch up. She had eyes for no one else but Tesleen’s twisted form, whispering, “I wondered where you went…”

The Echo beat no warning for Tesleen, even when she reeled on him to disgorge white ichor, coating the ground where he’d been an instant before--as if they sparred again, as if _ she meant him no harm _ . Perhaps she didn’t, and the lack of _ intent _ behind her blows confounded the Echo. It required more of his concentration, and he could not focus enough to share the song again--instead he bent all his will towards granting Tesleen swift mercy.

In the end Alisaie’s blade struck true, piercing her through and then ripping back out in a spray of white. Tesleen’s twisted form collapsed with a wretched sound, aether already visibly dissipating as she reached out for Alisaie. “Tesleen… be at peace,” Alisaie told her.

And then she was gone.

They spared no time for grief, pressing on for sake of those yet surviving villagers--even as they crossed into a courtyard and saw three of them overwhelmed and turned before their eyes. Aden made a quiet, disgusted noise, and rushed on, the Exarch at his side. It would not happen again. It _ could _ not.

No one here deserved this fate, virtuous and villainous alike. While Aden held no delusions he could pry every soul from the jaws of dreadful transformation, he _ would damn well try _ . That battle fever did not rise in him again, that twisted snarl of anger and frustration and _ helplessness _ coming to a head. He was the _ godsdamned Warrior of Light _ and nothing would stand in his way. He cut a furious path onward with little mind paid to the others, knowing that his sentimental worry for them would only be a liability in the ugly work ahead, following the swell of that oppressive aether that suffused the air, the angry buzz of the Echo reacting to a powerful sin eater.

Only the Exarch kept pace.

They broke from the forest path onto a courtyard afore a manor ablaze, where a ghastly abomination reared before them. It seemed a miracle the thing moved at all, dragging its hindquarters on legs that looked more like massive, warped hands, bound in great shackles and swinging chains. A thick, muscular tongue lolled from its slack jaws, drooling more white ichor, and the skin of its torso bore regularly spaced scores, looking for all the world like woven leather. With every heaving motion they split and shifted, revealing darker flesh beneath. No voidsent with their dark elegance and power could match the utter _ revulsion _ of this thing. The warning buzz of the Echo flattened out to white static, like a linkpearl going out.

“...We stand in the presence of a lightwarden.”

“_ Good _,” Aden snarled back at the Exarch, shifting his spear and his stance. “Time to end this.”

They struck as one, the Exarch clearing the distance and slamming into it in a burst of golden aether, while Aden went hurtling over it to land on the beast’s back, digging his spear in and using his momentum to drag a line down its side as he landed. It easily matched the size of some dragons he'd encountered, just as strong from the way the stone cracked when the Exarch dodged the slam of a meaty fist. Lyna and the twins joined them, Alisaie with a spell already on her lips and Lyna's chakram slicing into the beast's neck with a wet, meaty sound.

Aden spared them a glance. Lyna glowered at them, most likely displeased that the Exarch had charged ahead with Aden; and Alphinaud watched them with keen interest, his mind clearly less on _ his _ fight than _ theirs. _ He bit back a chiding shout; focusing instead on the task at hand. Alphinaud _ knew better _ . 

The Echo's rhythmic warning hitched just a split second before it reeled on the three latecomers, raising one giant lower fist. Despite its size the beast moved preternaturally fast, and while Alisaie and Lyna moved immediately, aided by aetheric skills, Alphinaud could not clear enough distance. _ Unless-- _

As the chains attached to the manacle on that wrist whipped back Aden moved _ towards _ them, interrupting their momentum with his spear such that they tangled around the shaft. He twisted it up further, getting a firm hold, and when the beast lunged forward he braced himself, all the energy he would normally direct into a powerful jump concentrated instead on remaining steadfast. The chains shrieked under the stress, the shaft of the spear began to _ bow _ , and every muscle in Aden’s body _ screamed _ at the strain, but he held fast. The lightwarden thrashed, trying to pull away, to reach back and grab him, _ anything _ . For a long moment it struggled in vain, leaving it wide open for everyone else to do what they willed. It lurched mightily with its whole body, dragging him a few fulms before finally, somehow, _ leaping _ with all of that massive bulk. It jerked Aden into the air, whipped the chain around and slammed him into the ground. He _ bounced _, and it ripped the spear from his hands before he landed again, rolling under the momentum. It raised the opposite fist, dripping white ichor from a dozen wounds the others had inflicted, and slammed it down--into the iridescent, transparent facets of protective magics that spread out from the Exarch’s upraised shield as he planted himself between Aden and the lightwarden. “I’m with you!” The familiar tingle of healing magic washed over him in distinctive, unfamiliar aether: cold crystal, a thrum of ancient power, the last warmth of a sunset.

Aden wasted no time, kipping up to his feet before the magic had a chance to fully clear his head or soothe his torn muscles--he’d live, it’d be fine--and laid eyes on his spear, still wrapped in chains and flailing through the air. As the Exarch threw off the heavy blow and answered with one of his own, Aden dashed to find a better angle, juked _ towards _ the lightwarden, and leapt for his spear. Once he had it in hand he jackknifed in mid-air to reorient himself, slamming it back down into the opposite flank of the beast. He continued to push, embedding the spear up past the tines that made up the crossguard, and _ twisted _ . It jerked that lower arm back again and pinned it in place, the lightwarden unable to pull free without ripping itself apart. He backed away as the tail began to thrash, and a brilliant light built in front of the beast. The others rushed behind it as it struggled, that oppressive aether building until it breathed out white-hot energy where some of them had stood but an instant before--then _ inhaled _ , sucking it all back in. The Exarch skidded to a stop next to Aden, the aetheric sword in his hand lengthening as he held it out. “Seeing as you have so cleverly disarmed yourself.” He sounded _ amused _, a fond smile curling the edges of his lips.

When he took it it was startlingly solid, an impressive feat--he could do it himself but Aden had never handled a weapon made of _ someone else’s _ aether before. “Thanks.” It looked and _ weighed _ familiar, balanced like one of his old spears, a convenient coincidence. The Exarch merely answered by pooling his aether into another sword, which meant he maintained _ three _ solid constructs now, one he wasn’t even in _ contact _ with. 

“If you’re _ quite done _ we could _ use a hand! _ ” Alisaie rushed past them in a blur, reeled in at their foe sword-first by her magic. Aden answered her with a pulse of aether, sharing the rising song again. Then he dove back in, falling into that comfortable rhythm with a stranger once more. 

He only surfaced from that calm center when he drove the borrowed spear into the crux of the lightwarden’s back between its lower and upper halves, where the spine _ should _ be, and it stopped thrashing under his weight. Aden looked down at the Exarch, blinking slowly. What he wouldn’t give to see the man’s expression, some recognition of what had passed between them while fighting--and to know _ how _ they had managed it as all but strangers. _ Why _ the man seemed to know one of the most vital parts of him in a way only one other had. All he saw was a quiver to the Exarch’s lips, and the man quickly looked away.

_ Who are you? _

Aden ripped his spear free and jumped down, getting clear of the lightwarden just as its aether began to dissipate. “It's releasing its aether. Fall back!” Lyna shouted, but she had eyes only for the Exarch while she issued her warning. “We cannot let it touch us. Quickly, my lord, we must withdraw!”

“That will not be necessary, Captain.” The Crystal Exarch released his hold over the aetheric weapons, each of them dissipating, and Aden slung his spear as they all regrouped on one side of the courtyard. “...Though I appreciate your concern. The eternal Light of these creatures has confounded us for nigh on a hundred years. For each we have put down, another has risen up in its place, born of the selfsame aether relinquished by its predecessor.”

He knew before the words left the Exarch’s lips. “But now we have a way to contain that corruption.” Aden _ felt _ it already, tugging at him. He turned back to face the limp, grotesque body. The whole world narrowed down to one point, his vision dark but for that cloud of bright aether. All sound drowned out as the buzzing static of the Echo’s warning reached a crescendo, struck a broken chord. “The blessing of Light! And the hero who wields it now stands before you!” The Exarch’s voice cut sharp and clear through that din--and then that corrupted aether _ suffused _ him, Light calling to light. He inhaled sharply, took a step back--and that was it. Aden opened his eyes, the light settling into his own aether peacefully, gentle as a spring breeze. It smoothed over that snarled tangle in him, soothed the irritated edge of dark power. 

Light yet visibly coursing across his body Aden looked up, some soul-deep instinct in him knowing he could dismiss this eternal light effortlessly as snuffing a candle’s flame. He did so, reaching up a hand to draw back the curtain it made and reveal the dark, sacred night. The skies _ parted _.

“Behold! The monster's power is broken! And the world twisted by its touch returns to its rightful form!”

While Lyna sputtered a question Aden stared up at the sky, tail swaying gently. He spared the conversation half his attention, too pleased to see the searing light gone. So rarely were his miracles _ beautiful _ ones, or dramatic on such a grand scale visible to all near and far. It had been hard to see himself making a difference since leaving Ishgard for Ala Mhigo and the east, and now....

“How many years have I waited for this moment…” Aden’s ears twitched, turning on the Crystal Exarch’s voice, rough and laden with emotion. He turned properly, gave the man his full attention as was his due after his showing in battle. “For the one possessed of Her blessing. For you.”

The Exarch drew an arm’s length from him before dropping to kneel, bowing his head in almost pious reverence. “You have vanquished the Lightwarden of Lakeland, and for the first time in a century darkness has returned to the mantle of night. Without the ever-present Light to sustain them, the sin eaters will have no choice but to retreat. ...Yet our victory is far from complete. Though darkness has fallen here, the other Wardens yet bask beneath burning skies, feasting upon what little life remains.” The man seemed to take a deep breath, finally lifting his head to look up at Aden, and though he couldn’t see his eyes Aden could _ feel _ them on him, the Echo responding to the strength of the Exarch’s conviction. “Even should it cost me all I have, I would see each and every one of them slain, that this world might be spared from oblivion! Not only for the First, but for the Source as well! Save one and we save the other!” And then he… _ faltered _ . Aden _ felt _ it in the way he only did when someone spoke an unfamiliar language and the Echo struggled to translate a concept. “But...be that as it may...I concede it was wrong of me to summon you to this fight against your will. I swear on my life, I will one day atone for that deed. But for the present… I beg you stay and see this fight to its conclusion. Cast down the Wardens, and restore Darkness to the First!”

For a long moment Aden regarded him carefully, studying the man’s posture, running through his choice of words and the way his tone rose and fell, where his voice nearly broke and where it swelled. His pleas seemed so… heartfelt. Honest, and almost brokenly raw. Here was a man who cared so deeply for the people around him as to border on the saintly. For just a moment he’d felt it, in that broken, falterning way the Echo sometimes did. Would that he had Krile’s gift instead, and could know the man’s whole heart, and see where the lies resided. He knew they lingered still.

Perhaps they were the same lies he told _ his _ allies. The lies he told himself. What the Exarch yet hid from him mattered very little if this glorious night and the safety of two stars was his goal.

“Stand up,” Aden said, voice soft and a little gruff after his exertions. The Exarch’s hood tilted slightly, his confusion obvious. Aden closed the last step between them and held out his hand. “No one kneels before me. No one begs, or prays. Least of all you, after what I saw today.” Hesitantly the Exarch took his extended hand, fingers gripping around his forearm, and Aden pulled him to his feet. “If you ask something of me, you do it as my equal. I’m a man, same as anyone else. The blessing doesn’t change that.”

The Exarch hesitated, lips parting slightly as if he struggled to formulate a response as Aden released his forearm. “My apologies.” He took a step back, and a hundred uncomfortable questions buzzed through Aden’s head--none of them so important as this. They could wait.

“I’ll do this for you. For your people, and mine.” Aden held up a hand, indicating where the Exarch had knelt a moment before. “But none of this.”

The Exarch raised a hand to his breast, bowing his head. “On behalf of the First, I offer you my deepest thanks.”

"I understand there is much at stake here, Exarch, but why do you risk yourself so readily?" Alisaie, of course, was _ not _satisfied, and as soon as the Exarch turned from him Aden allowed a small smile to curl one side of his mouth. "It must have been a dangerous drain on your aether to summon even one person across the rift."

He spoke without hesitation, but strangely somewhere between conviction and rote response. "I do it for my people, of course─to give the Crystarium the tomorrow it deserves."

"That is true now, yes─but the city had yet to be built when you first called forth the Crystal Tower." Though she kept her manner diplomatic Aden knew well her tells, that the Exarch 's manner had not escaped her and she pressed the advantage while he remained unbalanced. "I'm simply curious to know what prompted you to commit yourself so completely to this particular course."

The Exarch hesitated for a long moment, hood tilting back as if he contemplated something unseen. "There are...things which we can ill afford to lose." He spoke softly, voice heavy with something like regret. "And...I sensed from the first that I had a part to play in preserving them." He lowered his head, giving her as much an apologetic look as he could with half his face concealed, and the square of his shoulders beneath the robes fell. "Forgive me. I fear the events of the day may have taken their toll. Despite appearances, I am an old man─one burdened with many...difficult memories, some too painful to recall."

That threw her off balance enough that she backed off. "Well, then I'm sorry for pressing you. It's a family failing, I'm afraid."

Alphinaud huffed softly, a dissatisfied sound. "One which has served us well, more often than not." He glanced in Aden's direction as if for confirmation. "Needless to say, we will continue to fight at your side until the last sin eater is defeated."

"We're with you," Aden confirmed, throwing the Exarch's own words back at him.

"Come then, my Warriors of Darkness─let us gather the surviving villagers, and make our way back to the Crystarium."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the slowest burn imaginable begins.


	6. Old Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peace ill suits the Warrior of Light, and lies ill suit the Crystal Exarch. 
> 
> Yet each must make do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I strongly recommend reading through chapter three of Fragments of Time before reading this. Events there are directly referenced.

Alisaie stayed behind in her grieving, Lyna to aid with the wounded, and the Exarch went ahead, both to throw off suspicion of Aden's involvement and to address the assured confusion in the city. That left Aden and Alphinaud to a leisurely night time walk back to the Crystarium. They passed in companionable silence for a time, each processing the day's events.

“I take it you know the Exarch?” Alphinaud chose his words carefully, something Aden heard in the soft tones of his voice. He glanced down at the boy walking beside him. Astute, brilliant Alphinaud, ever meddling.

"No."

Alphinaud missed a step with a soft sound of surprise. "But watching you two fight was like watching--_ well. _It was unusual. What happened?"

Aden gave a short, soft huff of a laugh. "I can't rightly say." He raised his arms and threaded his fingers together behind his head, careful to keep from catching his hair in the joints of his gauntlets. This was _ more _ than the song finding a particularly receptive heart, because it persisted without, even when Aden fell out of his near-trance state to fight Tesleen. Somehow his summoner knew one of the most intimate parts of him, the one many saw but none understood. “I can tell you I don’t want to get into a real fight with him.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know who’d win.” Aden tilted his head back, looking up at the sky overhead. It was breathtaking, the night crystal clear, and he traced patterns in the stars, wondered if the people of this world remembered their names for them. The blanket of stars reminded him of another night, cold and moonless, where it looked like you could reach up a hand and stir the stars together but for the will to disturb their distant, peaceful silence.

The Exarch did not _ struggle _ to keep up with Aden, to provide him _ support _ , but jumped directly into the fray alongside him without hesitation. It had been _ comforting _ , to fight alongside someone like that, the weight of the mantle of _ Warrior of Light _ a touch lighter. He could fuck up. He _ had _ fucked up. And everyone was fine, everyone had lived.

It made him the most dangerous individual Aden had yet encountered. He was the open hand Zenos had _ tried _ to offer and failed. He actively chose to trust the Exarch, to see where this path led, but that didn’t mean he surrendered his reason. The man knew enough of him to know to summon him in the first place, it stood to reason he could be laying a thoughtfully baited trap.

“You can’t mean that.”

“He’s either a seasoned fighter beyond my skill to be able to pick up on my fighting style and modify his own to _ match _ me the first time we’ve _ ever _ fought together,” Aden insisted, “or something more is going on. We’re matched for strength, I think, but I couldn’t tell you for sure without fighting him. Which, as I said, I mean to _ avoid _ if I can.”

The night around them lay hushed, all the world sleeping--which made sense. Aden suddenly itched to be out in the field with a journal documenting how the eternal light had changed the behavior of all the little things, and how they adapted to the return of night. Then again, with the ambient _ imbalance _ there might not _ be _ many natural creatures left. In that quiet he easily heard the small sounds of Alphinaud’s discomfort without ever looking at him, the shifting of his weight as he walked.

“Fortunate for us that he has proven himself an ally over the past year,” Alphinaud finally said, tension in his voice. Both the admission that Aden might have met his match and Aden’s mistrust of the Exarch made him uncomfortable. Aden closed his eyes, took a deep breath.

“Tell me everything you’ve observed about him, Alphinaud. Tell me why you trust him. I want to, after all that. I’m ready to hear it now.”

* * *

  
It seemed every ten steps in the Crystarium _ someone _ wanted to talk. _ Have you ever seen anything so beautiful? Were you there? I never believed in the Warrior of Darkness but now…. _ Some of them seemed genuinely elated or bewildered, merely needing to vent, but some seemed to press him, attempting to subtly glean information from a known associate of the Exarch. He managed to deliver Lyna’s message to Bragi, and by the time he reached his rooms he was finally, _ blessedly _, tired.

Aden stripped out of his armor on autopilot, the modified drachenmail falling off with comparative ease to its more traditional counterparts--he hadn’t merely asked for something less ornate and more aerodynamic, but easier to put on and remove by himself after the only person he’d _ allowed _ that close into his confidence had--

“So it's your lot's turn to be the Warriors of Darkness, is it? It's funny how things work out.”

One ear flicked in annoyance, as if buzzed by a fly. “Didn’t I tell you to fuck off?”

“Not so kindly, aye.” He didn’t shift his gaze, able to _ feel _ Ardbert behind him like the warmth of a fire. “Those white-haired twins who were with you... I remember them from our battle in the Source.” Aden continued stripping his armor, and only turned to face Ardbert once he reached the padding. “Are they your friends, then? Through thick and thin?”

“Friend is a dangerous word.” Aden leaned back against the wall beside the windows, crossing his arms. “_ Allies _, certainly. I trust them.”

Ardbert gave him a _ strange _ look, part accusatory, part disbelief.“Don’t lie to yourself about what they mean to you. I’ve _ seen _. Saw you teasing the boy, saw you hold back the girl when she wanted to charge forward.”

“You were watching?” Aden’s ear flicked again, and he did nothing to disguise his distaste.

“Well, I did warn you. I followed you to Eulmore and then on to Amh Araeng. And I was there when you slew the Lightwarden.” The spirit mimicked his pose, the same sort of annoyed _ defiance _ in it, but something far less closed off in his stance. “It won’t kill you to admit it.”

“It might kill them,” Aden countered. “And that’s worse.”

“Then I suggest you keep them close. It's when you charge ahead trying to save someone else that you end up losing those you love.” Even though the spirit needed no breath he heaved a sigh, uncrossing his arms, and something about him seemed _ weary _. “Not that you need telling. I'll bet you've lost plenty. But I wonder...what will it cost you this time?”

Aden set his jaw, teeth gritting together. He regretted his many long years wasted not pursuing the arcane arts that he might learn how to _ banish _ shades like this. If Ardbert noticed Aden’s demeanor he gave no indication, only continued on, voice growing melancholy. “I don't remember when it was that I learned regret wasn't worth the bother.”

“_ Get. Out.” _ Aden _ growled _ . He didn’t need a fucking _ lecture _ about loss and love, he knew them both all too intimately.

“You get numb to it all over the years. The lost comrades, the broken promises, the abandoned principles─just more nagging burdens to ignore.”

And the spirit vanished, quick as you please. Aden slumped against the wall, reaching up to rub his hands over his face. That stone sat hard and heavy in his chest, rimmed by the burning cold of the dark power he’d gained when it first settled into place. He couldn’t satisfy it by fighting another fight, not in his current state, though he _ craved _ that camaraderie--an equal by his side. Someone he didn’t _ need _ to fear for or protect. Ardbert was right, the twins _ were _ his friends, and better than most--but if he so much as said the word they’d slip through his fingers like everyone else. It dawned on him, then, what _ gnawed _ at him all these years, since that lance of aether took his whole world from him. He’d closed himself off, first in hard _ rage _ caught in the feedback loop of Nidhogg’s song, then in grief, and despair, wounds too raw for any kind hand that reached out to soothe them. He’d come out the other side knowing only he _ could not _ go through that again. He didn’t _ want _ to survive someone he cared dearly about. _ Warrior of Light _ , invincible, unbreakable, ever eager to lend a hand but also possessed of a _ terrifying _ wrath, had become armor, an illusion so complete he sold his closest allies and himself on it until Zenos had cut through it to the bone and revealed the festering _ bloodlust _ seething inside him, the only part left that _ didn’t hurt _. He’d struggled ever since to hold the shattered pieces of it together, his armor. The only thing that stood between him and truth.

He was _ lonely _.

And he couldn’t fix it.

He could stave it off, though. He could do something _ safe enough _ to soldier on another day. Aden pushed off from the wall, movements slow and dreamlike as he went for his armored jacket, tried not to turn inward towards that heavy stone with the names of everyone he’d ever lost writ upon it. They’d tried very hard to get him to stay when he had stopped by the Wandering Stairs on Bragi’s request. As he’d realized in Eulmore, he was _ nobody _ here, and he could sink into the false companionship of strangers plied by spirits without risking the worn shards of his invincible armor.

And without everyone on the face of the star hearing the next day that the Warrior of Light was a _ lightweight _.

* * *

The city celebrated late into the night, and while he didn’t partake of the festivities it gave the Exarch access to all the _ people _ he needed to talk to, all the various things he needed to put into play to help his people adjust to the return of night. He’d prepared for this, known Aden would succeed, but it made it no less wondrous to behold the night sky for the first time in a century.

Despite his best efforts he fretted over the effectiveness of his actions in Holminster Switch. Had he focused more on the escaping villagers and less on the selfish desire to fight alongside his old friend once more, would more of them have lived? But had he not been there, at the end…. Well, Aden would have survived, he held no doubts there.

No. It was justification. He felt guilty… over not feeling _ worse _ about all of it. Every time he thought back on their battles he returned merely to the foreign/familiar wash of aether, the feeling of dragon scales and snow, and the deeper sensation of the waiting night with its thousand-thousand stars. To the rhythm that had set his heart in synchronous with Aden’s and awoken some soul-deep memory in him. He remembered a voice from his past, now part of that future that might never come to pass, words that carried an uncertain implication: _ save for a song I will not share here. _

He’d _ heard _ it, the wordless dragonsong of furious battle, loss and _ hope _ that burned at the heart of his old friend. _ His _ song. Not loud or long, because for all his power Aden was, as he insisted, _ just _ a man, but clear as elemental ice. Of all the things to happen since Aden’s arrival, _ this _ finally drove home the solid _ reality _ of Aden’s presence.

At length he realized he too much yet whirled through his mind to seek rest or to delve into other work, and went out into the city to see with his own eyes the celebration winding down and to feel the sweet night air. He stopped and chatted with those he met along the way, soothing the conflict in his heart with their unabashed amazement. By the time wandering feet brought him to the watchtower over the rookery he understood that his eagerness to fight alongside Aden had served no detriment; he could regret the lives he could not save without placing that _ responsibility _ on himself. Defeating the Lightwarden and dispersing the horde of sin eaters was the most direct and effective tactic.

The Exarch reached the top of the stairs and stopped on finding the platform already occupied--by a familiar silhouette. _ Of course _ Aden had found this place, but he hadn’t expected it to happen so soon--near the rookery, in the quietest part of the city, high up and with a commanding view of the city and the Tower from the rear of the platform. It drew the Exarch in so long ago because it felt like the sort of place Aden would go, and the questions he’d asked himself so often over the years all centered around his old friend.

A board creaked under his shifting weight, and one of Aden’s ears--the one with the tiny split at the tip--flicked back his direction. There’d be no escaping now, so he joined him instead.

Aden sat with one leg dangling over the edge and the other drawn up, arm braced over it, staring out at the city with a melancholic expression. He wore that armored coat unfastened over the padding, and cut a lonely, striking figure in the moonlight. “You’re light on your feet,” he said, “for a man half made out of crystal.”

He knew Aden referred both to the fighting and to his sneaking up the Tower without meaning to, and he bit back something reflexively apologetic for intruding. “Something I have achieved only after many long years of fumbling practice.”

Aden made a soft, noncommittal sound somewhere in his throat. After a moment he reached out and patted the wood next to him, and the Exarch reluctantly took the invitation, sitting down with crossed legs despite his protesting joints, a few ilms back. It put him close enough for polite conversation, but far enough to be proper, and far enough from the edge that he worried less about a sudden gust of wind sweeping back his cowl.

The silence between them grew more comfortable as the Exarch remembered many evenings in Mor Dhona spent this way, staring up at the Tower or the brilliant stars, talking excitedly about the day’s finds and what the next might hold, or about the most choice bits of his historical studies. He’d learned to accept and understand Aden’s silence for what it was, but he’d had so much bursting inside of him he could not abide his own. Now he had a hundred years worth of things to say, and he could share none of them. But he had found a silence of his own, too, and that he could share.

“You have a beautiful city.”

Aden’s voice unexpectedly roused him from his reverie, and he blinked slowly before he remembered the man couldn’t _ see _ the gesture. “Thank you, but all credit belongs to her citizens. This is their city, not mine.”

Aden finally turned to look at him, regarding him skeptically for one long, silent moment. Then he turned back to the view before them, and extended a hand, describing with motion the line of one of the many glass roofs. “The way those panes glitter and reflect the moonlight, and the glass turns iridescent under the glow of the Tower…. This city was made with the night in mind.”

He felt distinctly uncomfortable at the insightful praise, which cut close to a truth he was unable to admit. Misdirection, then, was the easier tack. “I take it you could not find your rest, even with the night restored?”

“Old ghosts,” Aden answered, but there seemed to be some _ amusement _ in his tone, as if joking. He lowered his hand, draped his arm over his upraised knee. “I was thinking about how much someone would like it here.”

_ Oh. _ Did he have a right to intrude on this most personal of moments, then? But he was already trapped, and could not change the subject from _ that _ . “Your late fiance? Alphinaud told me the story.” _ A lie _, but a necessary one. “My condolences.”

Aden inhaled audibly, ears flicking back like part of a flinch. “No. That’s….” He leaned his head against his arm, blocking much of his expression from the Exarch, in a way that seemed very unlike the image he projected. “He’d like it here, too,” he said softly, “but he’d never have abandoned his duty long enough for it.”

“I apologize for the presumption.” It’d been well over a year now in Aden’s time, perhaps closer to two, but he’d always assumed the man grieved much as he did--they’d been so alike in aspect, once.

Aden made another soft noise, in place of where someone else might say _ it’s fine _ \--acknowledgement and nothing more. “I can’t think about him half the time because it still hurts so much, and the other half I just want people to _ shut the hell up _ about him. The whole godsdamn world saw me grieve and they forget about everyone else who fell along the way, like they mean less because I didn’t love them the same way and go on a rampage to avenge them.” He shook his head, and the Exarch thought he caught a little roll in the motion as though he disguised wiping his eyes against his sleeve, before Aden straightened up. Aden looked _ tired _ , weary to his soul, and the Exarch knew that feeling keenly. He wanted to reach out, but kept his hands braced behind him. “I was thinking about the man I asked you about after I arrived,” Aden said, making the Exarch _ very _ glad of his cowl and the heavy shadows of night disguising his expression. Not only was this far more personal than he’d expected, but Aden had been up here _ thinking about him. _ “I can’t see how you’d call the Tower and not him, but if it was open when it arrived, maybe… I don’t know. Anything could’ve happened.”

“I saw no signs of violence that would indicate anything untowards inside the Tower, if that is of any comfort to you.” The lie rolled off his tongue easily, but it was one he hadn’t been prepared to tell. Outside the Ironworks’ files history made little mention of the man he’d been or Aden’s involvement in the expedition. He hadn’t expected to… matter this much.

“I reckon.” Aden sounded resigned, in the way of a man who accepted disappointment as a constant companion, but then his voice turned bittersweet. “He said his ancestors had wanted the Tower to _ shine forth as a beacon of hope _. He’d like what you’ve done with the place.” Then he tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. “And he’d like this, too.”

_ He does, very much. _ The Exarch’s heart hammered against its cage of encroaching crystal, the words all but on his lips. Yet he _ could not _ . He focused on his hundred-year mission, on the work to come. _ Especially _ knowing what he knew now, he _ couldn’t leave Aden with that burden. _ Nor could he leave his old friend grieving him for a second time, alone.

_ You’re always alone, aren’t you? _ If his manner with the twins, who had died by his side fighting to keep him alive, were any indication--the Exarch wondered very much if this was the first time Aden had said _ any _ of this to _ anyone. _ Perhaps he’d overshot with his show of strength. Or perhaps it was that he was a _ stranger _, and an obviously tight-lipped one at that.

All the unease he’d felt during his research finally settled into place for a more complete image of the man his old friend had grown into, and his heart ached to realize _ he himself had been one of the first of many _. He’d played a part in making Aden this way, and thought so little of himself compared to this great hero it had never occurred to him until now.

The Exarch couldn’t ease that pain by telling him the truth, but he could let Aden know he wasn’t _ alone _ . He shifted forward, dropping his hands into his lap to rub the palm of his spoken one along the crystal of his other arm. “I lost someone as a result of the flood,” he said, very softly, because it came _ so close _ to the truth and he walked a _ fine line _. “Many did. Nothing makes my loss special. But I had not realized how important he was to me until he was gone.” Blinking moisture from his eyes he looked up, the domes of the city glittering beautifully in the moonlight. “I wanted… to ensure it did not happen again, and to build a place where he would have been happy.”

Silence settled between them once more, weighty with shared loss--that each of them sat next to one another in grief _ over each other _ , but only one of them knew. And only one of them _ could _ know. He had lost _ his _ Aden, as Aden had lost his friend, but to _ save _ him he denied them both that happy reunion. If he behaved as if the man he loved yet lay dead and not _ by his side _, he might stay the course.

“Would that I had your strength,” Aden whispered, perhaps to himself, perhaps to the stars, “to build rather than destroy in my grief.”

Before the Exarch formulated a reply Aden stood, an alarmingly loud _ pop _ accompanying the motion. “I think I let Glynard pour me a few too many.” As if that wrote his behavior off as maudlin. “Thanks,” followed, softer, halfway to the stairs.

Sitting alone with the weight of their shared grief and no secrets spilled felt nothing like victory.

* * *

Aden returned to his rooms newly exhausted, sobering, too numb for grief. He shucked out of the hastily donned lighter armor, pausing only when the light of the moon caught his eye through the frosted glass of the windows. He felt foolish, wandering across the city for a glimpse of the sky easily visible from here. Stripped down to only his pants he opened the window, and cool night air flooded the room. He took a deep breath, letting it fill him--and smelled good, clean earth, green and growing things. But the room sat several stories up….

He looked down to find the ledge outside the window, what might have passed for a shallow balcony, _ covered _ in large pots of flowers. A soft, surprised sound escaped him, and he fell to his knees, reaching for the velvety leaves of the nearest one. Each pot held at least two varieties, and they seemed chosen not solely for their beauty but the _ variation. _From what little he’d seen of the blighted land Aden suspected this a botanist’s survey of Lakeland in miniature. He needed his journal, needed to--

Aden lowered his forehead to the edge of one of the pots, laughing silently. _ He was so fucking tired _ , and so fucking sore, and so fucking heartsick, but a bunch of godsdamn _ plants _ still distracted him enough to forget his pain. Instead of going for his journal he finished readying for bed, doused all the lamps, and dragged the covers and pillows off the bed. He rolled up in them at the open window, pillow propped against the small sill, and stared up at the moon through leaves and petals.

He could regret his choice of sleeping on the floor tomorrow, and leave the mystery of who’d sent them for another day.


	7. An Unwelcome Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even as the Warrior of Light settles into an uncomfortable peace, it cannot last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters seven and eight were written together in one long block and you can thank my fantastic beta Honoura for convincing me otherwise and saving your eyeballs.

Alisaie lay in bed, one arm behind her head and the other spinning her focus in the air with short pulses of aether. Her hand bobbed with the motion of subtle manipulation, and she stared at the ceiling,  _ horribly _ bored while Alphinaud explained one of his many theories about the effects of the everlasting Light on social behavior. Ever since his return from Kholusia he’d been trying to explain away the strange behavior of the citizens of Eulmore, because noble, valiant-souled Alphinaud couldn’t countenance  _ normal people _ condoning the behavior he’d described. Personally Alisaie preferred Aden’s rather simple explanation: they were a cult waiting for an ‘end time’, perhaps with some aetheric manipulation to sweeten the influence of their leader. Such things existed on the Source, why not here?

She listened to Alphinaud drone on to distract her from what had happened, what she’d done yesterday. Still, it  _ bored _ her, and she eagerly desired any other distraction.

“How long until our meeting with the Exarch?”

Alphinaud glowered up at her from the desk where he sat writing as he talked, and huffed at her. “Must you ask that every quarter bell?"

“I don’t want to miss it,” she lied. “And besides, I can’t shake the feeling Aden should have stopped by already.”

“Well, it’s... blast it, half a bell until our meeting.” He closed his book loudly, standing from the desk. “You’re right, he should have received our note long ago. Let us go and see if he is in his rooms.”

Alisaie reached the door before Alphinaud finished pushing in his chair, belting on her sword as she went. Bothering Aden sounded like a  _ fine _ distraction.

Their rooms all occupied the same floor, though not the same hall. Regardless, it only took a moment to reach Aden’s rooms, and to her chagrin Alphinuad weaseled his way in front of her and knocked politely. Two whole minutes passed, she counted out in her head, and she shouldered Alphinaud aside to knock more confidently. “Aden?” she called.

This time they waited about twice as long before they exchanged a glance. “Perhaps he had some other pressing business,” Alphinaud suggested.

“Perhaps he’s dead to the world in there,” Alisaie countered. “I don’t think he’s slept since he arrived in the First.”

Alphinaud frowned, bringing one hand to his mouth in a thoughtful gesture. “He’s doing that  _ thing _ again,” he muttered.

“ _ Thing? _ ” Alisaie crossed her arms, leaning against the doorjamb. “I mislike your tone. Please, elaborate.”

“’Tis a..  _ skill _ he learned in Ishgard. Much as the blessing allows him to push the boundaries of what his spirit and body can endure, but it... works rather differently from what I can tell. He’s refused to explain it to me, the few times I’ve seen it, but I rather get the impression he doesn’t fully understand it himself.”

“Wonderful.” Alisaie rolled her head, indicating the door beside her and the man who presumably resided within. “He has another way to ignore grievous wounds until it's nearly too late.”

Alphinaud gave a dejected sigh, shaking his head. “Sometimes it has.. side effects. I’m sure he’s fine, but we should check on him all the same.”

They managed to talk the manager of suites into sending an attendant with a master key to open the door for them, and Alisaie knocked one last time,  _ loudly _ , before pushing the door slightly ajar to peer in. “Aden?” Alphinaud ducked under her arm to look in.

His room was slightly  _ larger _ than either of theirs, for one, but not so much as to inspire jealousy. Directly ahead of the door the massive frosted windows overlooking the balcony stood open, letting sunlight— _ true _ sunlight from a cloudless blue sky—fill the room. A pile of sheets and blankets lay tangled just inside the window, a rather suspiciously Aden-shaped lump completely cocooned in them with a pillow  _ over _ his head. The only true indicator, though, was the tip of a russet-furred tail sticking out on one side, utterly still as in a sleep of exhaustion.

Alisaie narrowed her eyes as they were drawn back up to the balcony outside the window, scrutinizing what lay beyond. “I don’t have flowers in  _ my _ room,” she muttered.

“Nor do I,” Alphinaud said. “I wonder....”

“--Who sent them?” Alisaie pushed the door open further, and Alphinaud nearly fell over from the loss of support. “I mean to find out. Aden, get up--”

Then Alphinaud nearly fell over himself trying to get in front of her, body blocking Alisaie from moving further into the room. “Please, let me wake him, sometimes he--”

“--Wakes up swinging? Yes, I know. I can take a hit, Alphinaud.” She put a hand on his shoulder to push him out of the way, deeply annoyed, but he answered by putting both of his hands on her shoulders and bracing.

Then he began pushing her back. “I know you can, but that’s not what I mean. Sometimes he--” Alphinaud looked over his shoulder as the pile of blankets shifted very slightly, the russet tail disappearing beneath them. Alisaie scowled at Alphinaud as he pushed harder, actually making some  _ headway _ this time and getting her into the doorway. “Sometimes he sleeps  _ nude.” _

“Oh.” Alisaie leaned back slightly, blinking rapidly. Behind Alphinaud Aden reached up with both hands to clamp the pillow tighter over his head, trying to block out the noise of them. Somehow the blankets barely shifted. “Well I assure you, he hasn’t got anything I haven’t seen.”

Alphinaud made a little choking noise, blushing, but he’d gotten her far enough to start attempting to close the door and he did so, pushing against the arm she braced against it. “Alisaie,  _ please _ , show at least a modicum of decorum.”

“So fighting alongside him and bleeding for one another doesn’t qualify me to be in his graces as much as you?” Alphinaud failed to budge the door with Alisaie putting her considerably greater strength behind it. “How is seeing a man naked worse than seeing his heart’s blood spilling out?”

Her brother made another choked noise, and she regarded him suspiciously. “What are you hiding?”

“Alisaie,  _ please _ . Not now.” She knew that tone well, and took a step back, letting go of the door so quickly that Alphinaud stumbled forward and nearly slammed his own face in it. Then she stood there, arms crossed,  _ glaring _ .

If she failed to wheedle it out of him perhaps one of the others might know.

* * *

Alphinaud leaned his forehead against the door,  _ relieved _ that she’d relented. Initially he meant to forestall an argument they lacked time for, if Alisaie saw the scars on Aden’s back. But his excuse had the opposite effect, it seemed, as she’d all but  _ leered _ at the word  _ nude _ , looking past him with keen attention. He heard a series of distressingly loud, vaguely wet-sounding pops behind him, accompanied by a grunt of effort. Then a pillow thrown with all the strength the Warrior of Light could muster slammed into his back and flattened him against the door. He barely heard some mumbled invective over the sound of air escaping his own lungs, something like  _ shut the fuck up Alphy.  _ Dazedly, he turned to find Aden pushing himself into an upright position, mostly engaging his arms rather than his core. A hideous bruise mottled his torso where the lightwarden slammed him into the cobbled pavement the day before, but it already looked several days advanced thanks to the quick healing he’d received. Bruise-dark circles marked the area under his barely-open eyes, but Alphinaud knew his glare by the slight scrunch of his nose and the cant of his ears.

“You are most welcome,” Alphinaud intoned dryly, “for my assistance in keeping your secrets.”

Aden pulled himself into a sitting position, leaning heavily against one side of the window frame with his shoulder. His gaze shifted, then his head turned abruptly, and the faintest hint of a smile ghosted across his face as he noticed the flowers. Before Alphinaud could ask after it the look faded, and Aden asked gruffly, “What?”

_ Not in the mood to chat _ , Alphinaud thought to himself. He wasn’t afraid of Aden by any means, nor had he any reason to be, but he knew when he could press the man and when it’d only result in a hasty retreat behind his surly walls. “’Tis nearly a full bell past noon. Are you well?”

“Enough.”

Alphinaud crossed his arms, trying his best to look appraising and confident. He  _ didn’t _ look well, and Aden rarely slept past dawn save when direly exhausted, but their tasks today promised to be minor, and an argument won today might be a more important one lost on the morrow. “We have a meeting with the Exarch shortly. Alisaie and I had matters to discuss with you ‘prior to said meeting, however in light of the situation.... I suppose I should tell him you will not be in attendance?”

“Five minutes,” Aden said, rubbing a hand over his face. It stopped at his chin, feeling along his jaw and back up his cheeks at the scruff marring the normally immaculate line of his short, trim beard. “...Ten minutes.”

“We will meet you there, then.”

He managed to whip out the door after opening it only enough to squeeze through and slammed it shut before Alisaie caught a glimpse around it of Aden’s scarred body.

* * *

They spent the better part of two bells discussing the events at Holminster Switch, sharing observations about the attack, but most particularly the slaying of the lightwarden. The Exarch seemed keenly interested in the process by which Aden had absorbed and contained the warden’s abundance of Light—he made clear he’d known it would happen, but not the mechanisms by which it occurred, though something about that explanation seemed… off. Aden had little to say on the matter—it’d been as simple as Lyna made it sound, and by this point he could no longer distinguish between ‘himself’ and the foreign aether, the two fully integrated. The Exarch evaded his questions on the source of his own knowledge regarding Aden’s abilities, the Echo, how he’d known to summon  _ him specifically _ —sometimes the answer was  _ Urianger _ , sometimes the answer was  _ the vast resources of the Tower,  _ sometimes  _ records from before the Flood. _ . Every answer seemed plausible, but none satisfied Aden. Instinct still told him the Exarch held a lie in every word and every movement, the Echo firing in the very subtle way it did in a broken mimicry of Krile’s gifts.

But he’d made a choice, he reminded himself. And trusting an ally included allowing them their secrets if they must be so closely guarded.

Now he had a new problem, anyroad: an entire afternoon to himself in an unfamiliar place. The twins had their own business to attend to, apparently, their conversation being something they’d needed to have  _ before _ the meeting. Aden didn’t fancy another evening like he’d had in desperation the night before, but he needed to do  _ something _ . Preferably something that involved avoiding the insufferable git of an archer at the Wandering Stairs who’d spent half the night grilling him about his skills as a hunter.

He found himself wandering around on the circuit of his tour with the Exarch his first day here, trying to recall what he’d said about each area—but Aden had been busy glaring at the back of his cowl, trying to read his body language, and assessing escape and ambush routes. At length Aden found himself in the Crystalline Mean, and after a brief conversation with Katliss utterly distracted by a familiar hovering sphere behind one of the counters.

Suffice to say, he found a way to occupy his afternoon.

* * *

Unable to brush the image of Aden’s weary face from his mind’s eye, or dismiss the disquieting manner in which he’d described he integration of the Light aether, rather than taking his rest that evening the Exarch found his feet wandering again, returning him to that familiar, comforting spot—only to find it occupied once more. He slowed his step, and this time watched Aden for a long time, resisting the urge to shift his weight anxiously. He sat staring out at the city again, or perhaps at the Tower. The Exarch had no interest in disturbing him, neither intruding upon his solitude nor enduring again the fresh knowledge that his old friend missed him, had mourned him, not in the same  _ way _ but perhaps just as much. Yet he could not leave, either, for risk that Aden might hear him. Finally he screwed his courage and walked out to join Aden, sitting down in the same relative position as the night before.

“I’m sorry,” Aden said, “if I’ve stolen your spot.”

“No apologies necessary,” he answered. “I believe there may be sufficient view for both of us to partake.”

That earned a short, soft huff of a laugh, a sound he hadn’t heard in  _ ages  _ but now had two nights in a row, and the Exarch smiled to himself, warmth blooming in his chest. It wasn’t always a genuine sound, he knew, but it meant something had caught Aden off guard—and  _ usually _ in a good way.

“I reckon there is.”

They each filled the space with their own silence, familiar strangers in amicable company, the Exarch alone with his thoughts of  _ how much of myself can I give  _ and  _ how far is too far _ and  _ what gives this dead man’s heart the right to beat so fiercely _ . He’d spent a hundred years steeling himself for this, a hundred years living in pious self-sacrifice for the people of two worlds, and still it was not enough to master his feelings with the object of his affections here in the flesh. But he could think now in terms not of his own desire, but in what he could do for Aden. What he  _ should _ do. It was... better, at least. That he could direct those selfish desires into the selfless act of healing his old friend.

And yet the words of a man long gone who had set him on the right path echoed in his mind, the mantra by which he had lived his life ever since:  _ From this day forward, if you wish to succeed, everything you do you must do in love. _

Perhaps he could love Aden in a way that yet permitted him to do what he must.

* * *

The next night the Exarch came early, anxiety beating like a trapped bird behind his heart’s encroaching crystalline cage. He arrived before Aden, as intended—but would the man show at all? Two nights in a row might be mere coincidence, three might establish a habit. He felt foolish, planting himself and merely waiting for the object of his affections to appear... but he had waited seventy some years for Aden to appear, and twenty some more for exactly the right moment to pull him across the rift. He was very,  _ very _ good at waiting.

The Exarch assumed his customary position from the last two nights, and at length the stairs creaked softly, the quiet  _ tmp _ of heavy boots under a careful step crossing the platform. Aden settled down beside him with a little nod in greeting, wearing that lighter set of armor he’d acquired at some point during his journey to locate the Leveilleur twins. It seemed much more fashionable than anything the young man he’d known would ever entertain wearing, yet still  _ simple _ in a way, and plainly armor to anyone with much experience wearing it. In the clean lines and stark colors of it he cut a striking figure, muscular frame filling out the armored jacket quite--

“Good evening,” the Exarch said, wrenching his train of thought away from  _ that _ . He felt exceedingly glad for his hood and the half-light from the city, and deeply frustrated that the spark of  _ who he had been _ leapt so eagerly to the fore of his mind around Aden,  _ most particularly _ to an aspect he  _ could no longer pursue  _ even if it weren’t utter madness. It wouldn’t matter for long, at least.

“I suppose it is,” Aden answered, with a soft, subtle little smirk. It said much, that combination, and much he felt he had not yet earned. But he could change that. In fact, he meant to work towards that, right _ now. _

“I hoped to find you here again,” the Exarch admitted, and picked up the satchel he’d carried up. He retrieved a slim book from it, one obviously much used in an earlier time and carefully preserved since, the cover bound in blue cloth and decorated in silver. “My apologies for the intrusion into your privacy, but Moren shared with me your recent inquiries. He may have had little to offer, but I happened to have this in my personal collection.”

He offered the book to Aden, who took it, careful of its fragile appearance. The Exarch had never forgotten that Aden was a  _ scholar _ in addition to a  _ warrior _ , so while his gentle manner didn’t surprise the Exarch it brought a smile to his face, regardless, that he’d obviously taken great pains to learn how to handle materials in this state. Aden opened the book, and made a soft sound of surprise, that little smirk spreading into a subtle, genuine smile that nearly reached his eyes.

Close. So close.

“An astronomy primer,” Aden remarked, carefully turning the pages. “From before the Flood?”

“From before the Flood,” the Exarch confirmed.

Aden paged through to a star chart, and after a moment of studying it looked up. “This’d be better outside the city,” he muttered, half to himself, “or at the top of the Tower. But it’s dark enough for some of it here....”

He put the book down between them, and produced from somewhere inside his jacket a small, softly glowing crystal, tinged blue and pulsing slowly with the rhythm of sleeping breath, positioning it to hold the page open delicately and to provide enough light to read the chart by. They spent bells learning the forgotten names of the stars, tracing constellations in them, denying their shared sun-bound nature late into the night. The smile stayed, but it never quite reached Aden’s eyes.

It was a start.

It opened a floodgate, one the Exarch hardly expected. The next night Aden asked him, “What other things survived the Flood that might not be in the Cabinet of Curiosity?”

In hindsight, he should’ve known revealing to Aden he had his own private stash of books would pique his curiosity  _ too _ keenly. He couldn’t shake the feeling he’d well and truly crossed the line he’d intended to maintain, but in a hundred years of absence and immersing himself in the heroic tales of his old friend it’d slipped his mind just  _ how much _ of a bookworm Aden had been.

* * *

Aden settled a hand on Alphinaud’s shoulder and the other on Alisaie’s, protectively drawing them close. When Ran’jit entered the room he  _ felt _ the distinctive tinge in the air of a mortal under draconic influence, but it seemed somehow...  _ thin,  _ different from all the familiar ways of bearing that power. He trusted that despite the Exarch’s clever and subtle magics, the General would sense his presence. He hadn’t seen the man while making his assessment of Eulmore’s military—had Ran’jit seen him, or drawn close enough to sense--

Aden’s hands tightened very slightly on the twin’s shoulders and his ears pinned back. Ran’jit bore that power songless. Even the weakest aevis echoed a whisper of the heartsong of her sire when one drew close enough, and stronger dragons had soft tunes of their own, though nothing so powerful as one of the celestial dragons. They made no habit of broadcasting them, but a keen ear and a receptive heart could catch snatches of it. A powerful dragoon or a transformed mortal should have  _ something  _ whispering this close to someone so keenly attuned to that kind of power as Aden, but Ran’jit carried terse silence instead. Whatever it meant, it felt  _ unnatural _ .

“I see. Since you have been so candid, I too shall speak my mind.” Aden smirked; he liked the Exarch’s tone, heard the coming defiance despite the diplomacy of his words. “Regardless of who is responsible, the Crystarium rejoices in the Lightwarden's death, and welcomes the return of the night sky. If Eulmore considers this tantamount to aiding those you term “villains,” then by all means carry out your retribution. Know, however, that even should every innocent soul in the Crystarium perish, nothing can stop that which has been set in motion.” He had to resist the urge to applaud; what a delightful way to say  _ you’re fucked no matter what you do. _ Perhaps he’d take notes and use that sort of frustratingly open non-answer in the House when he returned.

Ran’jit sighed in apparent exasperation. “Folly. The death of one or a thousand thousand sin eaters changes nothing. The world is dead, and writhe as we might, like maggots in its rotting corse, it will not be reborn. Only by my master's grace may we live out our days in peace.” Aden’s ears flicked to the side; he’d been right, the bastards  _ were _ cultists praying to the instrument of their demise for salvation in death. “But I waste my breath. You have made your stance clear. I shall relay your words to Lord Vauthry. In the meantime, you would do well to counsel any here who have done more than merely “rejoice” in recent events to throw themselves upon Eulmore's mercy. Promptly.” Then, as if Ran’jit had forgotten, but in such a calculated manner there was no question the gesture had been staged, “One last matter. We are searching for a young artist and his assistant. Know you of whom I speak?”

Aden wondered how much Alphinaud had told the Exarch while he raced off to Ahm Araeng. “An artist and his assistant... No. I cannot say I do.” And he could make neither heads nor tails of whether the Exarch lied, the words came so smoothly.

“What a pity. Should they reveal themselves to you, I bid you hand them over at once. My master is most eager to see them again.” Ran’jit turned to leave, and as he did so made pointed eye contact with Aden. Aden answered that stare with a glare of his own, felt that fine edge of seething, dark power boiling up and subdued it.  _ Not here, in the Ocular _ . He didn’t want to damage the presumably delicate workings of the chamber.

Ripping Ran’jit’s head off for openly challenging him in the presence of his allies after brazenly threatening the Crystarium to the face of her caretaker could wait.

After the General left the room and the Exarch dismissed his glamour, Aden closed his eyes, focused on deep, calming breaths to bring that dark power under control, to settle it back around the cold stone where his heart should be, where it belonged.

“Am I imagining things, or did he just stare straight at us?”

He noticed for the first time the subtle hum of the Tower, something comprised chiefly of aetheric components, but accompanied by a low drone and the same sense of ancient power he’d felt when the Exarch healed him in battle. Focusing on  _ that _ worked better than any breathing exercise, the droning tone a soothing sound and the aetheric components reminding him of that feeling of connection, that he  _ could fuck up _ . That someone had his back in more than spirit, could both physically and aetherically shore up any shortcoming.

“I fear he did. The General is not a man to be trifled with. He is a warrior of fearsome repute who has led Eulmore's army since before Vauthry's time, when the nation still spearheaded the fight against the sin eaters. One does not command the world's mightiest army, and for so long, without possessing exceptional instincts.”

“It was me,” Aden said, opening his eyes in time to catch the Exarch focusing on him. Owing to their late night conversations he improved every day at reading the man’s body language despite his concealing manner of dress, but it took little skill to feel the intensity of his attention every time. “Ran’jit possesses something like a very advanced dragoon’s power, or a dragon, but it’s... not right. He could tell I was here, though.”

The Exarch frowned slightly at that, and Alisaie asked, “Do you  _ have _ dragons here on the First?”

“There are drakes,” the Exarch answered, “but if there were anything more advanced it perished in the Flood.”

“We must assume it places him at an even greater threat level than expected, regardless,” Alphinaud said. “If Eulmore chose to send such an individual, we must assume this talk of retribution is more than an idle threat. While we are grateful for your support, my lord─we cannot in good conscience put your people in harm's way.”

Of all things, under his grim expression and words the Exarch sounded confident and proud. 'Tis noble of you to say, Master Alphinaud, but my people have been in harm's way since long before you arrived. Eulmore has ever yearned to rule over what remains of the world. Even should we surrender the Warrior of Darkness to them, they would find some other pretext upon which to invade. The people of the Crystarium know this only too well, which is why, when the time comes, I am certain they will fight to the last man. If truth be told, I would not have been surprised had Ran'jit declared war here and now...”

“He may have reason to delay. According to reports, the Eulmoran forces at Laxan Loft were observed taking a prisoner. A young woman believed to be none other than the Oracle of Light─Minfilia.” Aden’s attention immediately snapped to Lyna from his usual scrutiny of his summoner, his stance tensing again. “It may be that General Ran'jit wishes to convey her to Eulmore before commencing hostilities. Having mentored generations of Minfilias, it would not surprise me if he had made her capture his chief concern.”

“...Generations?” Aden’s ears swiveled between the two of them, tail curling slightly behind him, speaking the confusion that didn’t show on his face.

“Ah, of course. How remiss of me.” The Exarch had the good grace to sound apologetic, regarding Aden once more with his customary intensity. Every time, for even the smallest matter, as if Aden were the only person in the room for a few seconds. “I had intended to speak to you of Minfilia. There is, however, much to say, and precious little time in which to say it...I think it best that you seek out Moren at the Cabinet of Curiosity. He will be able to enlighten you.” He inclined his head slightly, turning his attention to the twins. “Alphinaud, Alisaie─would you care to accompany your friend? You doubtless have insights of your own to offer on the matter.”

Which was how they ended up combing the library for a missing children’s book with some rather...  _ avant-garde _ illustrations. As soon as the thought entered his mind Aden shook his head, ears flicking to the sides in annoyance  _ at himself _ . He’d spent too much time attending functions in Ishgard if he was criticizing  _ art _ now.

By the time Moren finished sharing the tale Aden’s ears pinned back instead, tail utterly still and his whole body tense. He remembered the sahagin priest what felt like a lifetime ago, his initial clash with Ardbert and his warriors of darkness. There were powers of the Echo they didn’t yet understand, some with unthinkable moral implications—that Minfilia found the situation dire enough to employ one spoke volumes.

“She’s our priority,” he said, turning on his heel and marching down the long staircase, tail lashing behind him.

The twins only hesitated a heartbeat before they chased after him, Alphinaud calling out, “Aden, wait, we need to have a word--”

Alisaie jogged up to match his pace, and spoke in a hushed, urgent tone at his side, “We know that Minfilia journeyed here as Hydaelyn's emissary to halt the Flood of Light. It could only be her that the people of the First witnessed a hundred years ago. The original Oracle of Light. But while there's plainly some connection between the woman we knew and her namesakes, the fact that these girls do not share her memories must surely mean they are not the same person.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Aden said, not slowing his pace. “Even if she’s not our Minfilia,”  _ she was _ , or possessed a conduit of some sort via the Echo, and he held up one hand as a fist, raising a finger, “she’s a prisoner unjustly held,” then another, “and she’s possessed of the blessing,” and clenched his fist, lowering it to his side “Priority.”

“As you will have already surmised, the gallant soul who rescued Minfilia was none other than our own dear Thancred,” Alphinaud called from behind them.

Aden glanced over his shoulder so Alphinaud would hear more clearly as they left the library, “Then he’d better show the  _ fuck _ up,” And as he crossed out into the hallway he turned back, stopping on his heel less than an arm’s length from running into the Exarch.


	8. The Oracle of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A proposal comes to fruition, and out of need the Warrior of Light spills one of his great secrets to several of the people he'd worked hard to conceal it from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're starting mid-scene from Chapter 7 here! If you didn't read it, go back!

“I see you've made up your minds.” The Exarch continued as if unconcerned by their near-collision, brushing past Aden almost shoulder-to-shoulder, and Aden realized for the first time the man stood nearly  _ four ilms shorter than him. _ Aden turned to follow him, silently sizing him up once again, wondering for a split second what in the  _ hells _ the man looked like under his robes to pack the amount of power he’d put behind a sword and shield into a frame his size. Unless he’d learned some  _ very _ creative applications of bolstering magics, he was no  _ old man _ as he’d claimed, nor the mystic watching from on high he presented himself as.

“Exarch! What brings you here?”

He stopped in their midst, regarding Alphinaud briefly at his words, and answered, “A report and a proposal.” The Exarch waited for them to gather in front of him before continuing. “First, the report. Our scouts have confirmed that the Eulmoran forces at Laxan Loft do indeed have Minfilia in their custody. For the present, they are holding her there, but we can be certain they will move her to Eulmore ere long. Should that happen, we may be forced to give her up as lost.”

Alisaie rested one hand on the pommel of her sword, shifting her weight as she spoke. “So if we mean to act, we should do so quickly.”

The Exarch nodded to her. “Which brings me to my proposal.” Then he lifted his head to regard Aden for a moment, in that intense manner of his—still just as uncomfortable as the first time. There was something behind it the Echo’s ability to sense the hearts of men couldn’t quite grasp, as if continuously slipping off a smooth stone. No matter how good he got at reading the Exarch’s body language, he could never know what lay behind the gaze beneath that hood.

He couldn’t know the man thought at that moment,  _ Let me show you my true great work, my proudest accomplishment. _

* * *

Aden and Lyna dismounted behind their unit, rushing up to join them, and as the interior of the fort came into view Aden made a quick decision to clear room for the soldiers--he had a goal, one from which he could not deviate, but he could give them an easier time along the way. As soon as he crossed the threshold he launched himself skyward, pulling his spear mid-air, to land amidst some few Eulmoran soldiers who’d resisted the drug and barely fifteen fulms in front of the unit, putting them just outside the radius of the shockwave and blast of aether that accompanied his landing. Alphinaud on the other side of the blast area threw his arms in front of his face to shield himself from the cloud of dust, and they fought their way through until they’d thinned the soldiers enough and Lyna barked a command to move on. Aden  _ disliked _ taking orders, especially with that fine edge of dark power so close as it had been since his arrival in the First, but they shared a goal and Lyna’s range permitted her the advantage in assessment. Besides, he wore the uniform of a soldier under her command, and he’d committed himself to that role for the moment.

They fought their way to Alisaie, who greeted them mid-cast with a shout of, “You certainly took your time. Let's cut a path through this rabble and keep moving!”

“Your zeal is admirable, sister,” Alphinaud shouted back to her, drawing into position some distance behind her with his carbuncle at his side, “but we were told to avoid enemy attention, not invite it!”

He was  _ right _ , much as Aden’s rising battle lust railed against the thought. They had a goal, and tearing through this invading force would not  _ satisfy  _ that goal. Nor would it do more than whet his terrible appetite for the fray; while the force as a whole was formidable, no one man in this Eulmoran contingent could provide a truly deadly challenge. 

As they left these men and women to the guard and continued on, some dim, distant part of him prayed this  _ wasn’t their  _ Minfilia, in any regard. The Minfilia he’d known would spare one glance and weep for the beast her Echo sensed in his skin.

Eventually Lyna and Aden peeled off from the twins, leaving them to entertain a group of Eulmoran soldiers. They found their target at the airship launch, sitting dazed among her fallen guards, hands tied behind her back—he’d expected a young woman around the twins’ age from the description, and her striking physical resemblance considering what he’d seen happen with the sahagin priest, but  _ why _ , of all things,  _ a child? _

“Quickly─free her!” Lyna took up a defensive position, and Aden dropped his spear without missing his stride, drawing a knife from his belt and stepping over one of the downed guards to kneel behind the girl.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, in as soothing a tone as he could manage. The girl obeyed perfectly, disconcertingly so, and he went through the ropes in smooth slices with the surprisingly fine edge. He sheathed the knife, making a mental note to ask who’d forged it later. Aden wrapped a gloved hand around her upper arm, helping her up from the ground before lunging past to retrieve his spear and urging her in between himself and Lyna.

“Th-Thank you.” she stammered, uncertain and shaking slightly. “Are you...from the Crystarium?” The girl pointedly looked at their uniforms, then up at Lyna as the guard captain turned to face her.

“Correct. We've come to rescue you.” Lyna unfastened a bound pair of sheathes from one side of her belt, offering them to the girl. “Your weapons─made to the same specifications as Thancred's. Be ready to use them.”

Minfilia took them and mechanically belted them on with shaking hands, looking down. “U-Understood. Please lead the way.”

_ Who made you this way? _ Aden’s tail lashed angrily as he watched the girl go, the first thing to give him pause in the entire operation. He saw too much of his old self in a few short words and her halting manner, though likely for different reasons. And he knew the answer to his question.

Aden followed after them, spear in hand and tail swinging behind him in the manner of a couerl sniffing out prey. Every dark part of his heart already sang for Ran’jit’s blood, but now it felt more  _ personal _ . If the power he’d sensed before changed him in the way it typically changed mortals on the Source, he knew the General would be here, wouldn’t let the challenge or the theft of what was  _ his _ go unmet.

He felt that silence before they reached the bottom of the stairs, called out to Lyna, “He’s here,” and the song began rising in his blood. Aden focused hard on Minfilia for a second, her familiar/unfamiliar likeness—the  _ priority _ . They had to get her out. Nothing else mattered. She seemed to know what he meant and her pace slowed slightly until she fell into pace a half-step behind Aden and on his right, looking up at him as often as she could spare.

Ran’jit was  _ waiting _ for them, standing in front of the twins who held their weapons at the ready and glanced tensely back at Lyna and Aden as they arrived. Minfilia drew her daggers, but stayed close at Aden’s side--a little  _ too _ close, indicating she clearly lacked experience with a spearfighter.

“Brazen thieves,” Ran’jit challenged them. Aden barely spared the girl at his side or even the man before them any attention, fixated briefly on the-- _ dragon? _ \--hovering at Ran’jit’s side. It shared many characteristics with some of the dragons he’d seen, and yet others he’d had described to him, but it seemed…  _ hollow _ , somehow. “You will regret coming here!” snapped him from his consideration, and Aden’s ears flicked to the sides, frustrated that he’d been so easily distracted. 

They reacted almost simultaneously, Ran’jit charging Lyna presumably as their obvious commander, and Aden’s jump landing him in the man’s wake just a  _ split _ second too late. He twisted uncomfortably to catch Ran’jit’s kick on his spear rather than letting the guard captain take it, and the force of the blow vibrated up the shaft. He held firm, and Ran’jit wheeled around to sweep his other leg at Aden. The Echo beat a warning so late Aden was already dodging, and the chainmaille of his Crystarium uniform dug in painfully under the hammerblow of Ran’jit’s next strike, so close together the Echo’s warning beat blurred together It pushed him back just far enough that Ran’jit swung at Lyna, though it seemed all his attention landed on Minfilia. “You will return to Eulmore.”

“N-No!” She answered him, hovering just behind and to the side of Lyna, hesitating,  _ torn _ . Then she glanced past Ran’jit, at Aden, and shouted, “I won't go back to that cell!” She refocused on Ran’jit, dashing in at him with all the smooth grace he’d expect from a student of Thancred’s.

“It is for your own protection.” Ran’jit easily dodged her as he focused on Lyna, weathering Alisaie’s spells as if they meant nothing. In such close quarters Aden had to take extra care with his blows, particularly since Lyna couldn’t get distance on the man--more than once he caught Ran’jit attempting to redirect a spear thrust, and Aden couldn’t employ some of his more devastating abilities with the others close at hand. Despite its bolstering effects he restrained the rising song, hoping perhaps for an opening to use it otherwise.

“Pathetic,” Ran’jit sneered, and shifted ever so slightly. The dragon flung itself skyward, raining an electric pulse down on Minfilia that drove her to her knees with a cry of pain before Ran’jit made a pushing gesture, and the Echo gave warning too late for Aden to brace himself against a  _ shove _ of wind and aetheric force. It pushed all of them away from Ran’jit, but Minfilia went  _ sprawling  _ all the way across the courtyard. Alisaie shouted for her, but didn’t falter in her casting.

“Stay there while I tend to these vermin.” He spoke so calmly, so  _ paternally _ , like a man sternly scolding a daughter. 

Aden growled, lunging in at the exact moment Alisaie’s magics carried her into rapier range, and he couldn’t dodge  _ both _ of them. But  _ bloodied _ wasn’t enough for him, not after what he’d seen and heard. The others shouted to each other,  _ wisely _ plotted to  _ run _ at the first opening. Aden fought himself to agree over the din. He finally had something to sink his teeth into, but  _ couldn’t _ for the sake of those with him, for the sake of their  _ priorities _ .

“You will do no such thing.” The dragon-- _ not _ a dragon, he was certain now--flung itself skyward once more, and this time struck the others in rapid succession. Aden braced himself, waiting for the strike that never came.

The Echo beat a warning less than a heartbeat before the wave of aether struck, the physical force of it sliding him back on his feet a full yalm before he dissipated that shove like he would the impact of a landing. With no enemy to take the blow the ground around him cracked, absorbing it instead, while the wave threw the others clear.

“And now it is just you and me.” Ran’jit returned to his stance effortlessly, and as Aden straightened he  _ understood _ . Ran’jit  _ lived _ in that blissful, empty place Aden knew only at the height of a jump or deep in a pitched battle, and without the warning beat of the Echo he could not reliably,  _ deliberately _ lull himself into that state.  _ Intent _ never entered into Ran’jit’s blows until the absolute last second, only action and reaction, and the Echo could not read him until it was too late. The space between sensing the coming blow and moving held no room for thought.

If he had to fight like he fought Zenos, reduced to a  _ beast _ of purest instinct,  _ that _ he could do, letting go of any thought but the kill. And perhaps--perhaps he’d find that calm center along the way and pull himself back from that edge. With the others out of the way it was even  _ easier _ . Aden shifted to hold his spear behind him, stance low, grinning madly and tail lashing excitedly as both the song rose within him.

He maintained the presence of mind for one quiet, stray thought: he hadn’t wanted the new Minfilia’s first impression of him to be this bloodthirsty beast.

Ran’jit’s stance shifted again,  _ wary _ . “You are made of sterner stuff than the rest.” The man assessed him, clearly sensing a change. Perhaps the draconic aether flooding Aden’s form, the ring of his song, so much  _ fuller _ than Ran’jit’s hollow, silent imitation. “But will it be enough...?”

Aden didn’t wait, his jump more a  _ pounce _ , and when Ran’jit caught the momentum by grabbing his spear and attempting to  _ throw _ him with it Aden channeled that draconic power along his spear. A searing torrent of raw aether like dragonsbreath shot down it, tinged with the burning cold of that dark power, washed over Ran’jit and  _ forced _ him to let go of the spear, taking a step back. For an instant he looked shocked, in which Aden lunged again and struck true, Ran’jit’s block too late.

Ran’jit employed the false dragon’s powers in earnest to keep Aden at bay, and the Echo’s warnings continued to come too late. “It seems you are no ordinary soldier,” sounded almost like a compliment. They traded blow for blow, most  _ glancing _ at best, Ran’jit’s placid expression growing grim while Aden’s grew predatory,  _ hungry _ . “You are persistent, that I will allow.” He struck true again, spear driving so  _ close _ to something vital he almost  _ tasted _ it, and ripped his spear free viciously as he took to the sky for another jump. The false dragon soared past him, and when he twisted to come down spear first Ran’jit shifted his stance oh-so-slightly. Aden’s spear drove through the meat of his shoulder, a hideous blow not-quite-dodged, but not  _ fatal _ , not  _ shattering bone and ripping the limb from his body _ . “I have your measure now. The game is up,” and then Ran’jit’s open palms rammed into his chest, reaching up to mirror the lash of lightning the false dragon called down. His heart seized, electric pain lashed through his lower back and along his tail in a  _ frighteningly _ familiar way, and his breastbone  _ shifted  _ with a loud snap under the force of the blow before reflex kicked in and he dissipated the rest of the blow. He landed badly, legs crumpling uselessly beneath him. For a dangerous,  _ terrifying _ second he was--elsewhere, several steps behind Aymeric carrying Estinien’s limp body and Alphinaud crowding close, fretting over the other Azure Dragoon, paying him no mind as a fizzling  _ numbness _ stole the feeling from his tail and his legs collapsed beneath him, pain and  _ panic _ warring for supremacy and stealing his breath as the high of borrowed power wore off. Electricity sent another spasm through him, returning him to the present as his hands unclenched and his spear slipped from his fingers. It was  _ temporary _ . He could still  _ feel everything _ . Aden tried to breathe calmly through another spasm, but it made everything  _ hitch _ , and deep breath pushed at obviously broken ribs.

He’d fought through infinitely worse, and with the fine edge of dark power behind him  _ pain _ was  _ power.  _ Aden reached for his spear, hand clenching involuntarily as another spasm of electricity ran through him. “Why,” he wheezed, “d’you talk so  _ damn much _ ?”

_ That _ pissed Ran’jit off, apparently, as his eyes narrowed and he made that pushing gesture from before. “ _ Know your folly.” _

Aden’s fingers slipped on the shaft of his spear, and it skittered away when that push knocked him back. He tried to brace himself, gloved fingers digging gouges into the earth, and at least he didn’t wind up on his back. Ran’jit started talking again, more  _ threats _ after a fashion, and Aden took a deliberately deep breath, wincing at the pain of his ribs shifting and a dozen bruises from the glancing hammer blows of Ran’jit’s strikes, the pain awakened in his back as if he’d just fought without wearing the dampeners at all--but they still worked, a little electricity wouldn’t short them out. They’d survived Omega’s worst, and this fool was  _ nothing _ . Aden released that breath, and with it the fine edge of dark power.

“...Aden?” Alisaie whispered behind him, but her voice seemed distant and faint. The interminable  _ cold _ of that heavy stone where his heart should be filled him, the maille and fabric of the Crystarium uniform he wore rapidly frosting over. He took another deep breath, and this time the pain was…  _ exquisite _ . An old friend. And the anger,  _ oh _ , the anger that burned in him, hot and cold at once. Ran’jit had made an uncertain, frightened mess of this new form his old ally wore; meant to drag Alphinaud before that den of sin eaters in that  _ perfumed corpse _ of a city for his  _ pound of flesh or more _ ; made a hollow  _ mockery _ of true power; and… worst, yes,  _ worst _ , that dark voice so like his own readily admitted where he would not have, had threatened death and destruction on  _ his equal’s people, _ the beautiful memorial wrought by his hands in crystal, glass, and spoken hearts. For any one of those things Aden would fight. For all of them together he’d make a  _ bloody fucking ruin _ of this  _ waste of flesh. _

“My  _ measure _ ,” Aden repeated, pushing himself up to his feet despite the electricity still trying to paralyze his muscles. The frost continued building over his armor, locking into plates, and he settled into a stance as if wielding a heavy weapon with nothing at all between his outstretched hands. “You don’t know  _ shit _ about me, old man.”

A smooth hilt of ice formed between his hands, the cold searing his palms, and he brought it up to block Ran’jit’s charging strike as the blade formed, nearly see-through at the edges with a glacial blue core like the deepest reaches of Snowcloak. Aden caught Ran’jit’s kick on it, sending a spiderweb of cracks through the blade, but when he pulled back the ice reformed around them.

Then Thancred  _ finally _ came crashing in. Ran’jit  _ easily  _ turned in time to catch his blow, probably because of how much  _ noise _ Thancred made--surprising Aden enough that he nearly missed his opening. Ran’jit deflected the blade  _ just enough _ to continue his momentum past and slam a palm into the center of Aden’s chest again, cracking the building frost. The cold suffusing him numbed the pain, but his breath hitched on every inhale.

Ran’jit made a  _ show _ of casually dodging Thancred, though between the two of them they kept the General  _ busy _ . It wasn’t  _ right _ , though. There was no  _ rhythm. _ He had to  _ pay attention _ to Thancred. Ran’jit was a challenge, but the fight felt… hollow.  _ Someone else _ should be there, or so said that dark voice so like his own.

_ That _ created the opening for the third blow, a slight incorrect turn of his blade where Ran’jit’s kick slid past and slammed into the same place on Aden’s chest, shattering the frost over his lighter armor. Something cracked loudly again, shifted, and Aden stumbled back, planting his sword to keep him upright and struggling to breathe. 

They spoke as they fought, but Aden heard nothing over the rasp and rattle of his own breath. His vision greyed around the edges, and rather than struggle he welcomed it, let his vision fade and felt  _ something else _ push to the forefront of his awareness before it resolved again. Aden straightened, the struggles of his body distant as that dark power bore those burdens for him. He only needed to  _ move _ . His hearing never cleared, ears full of his own slowing pulse and harsh breath as he dove back in. Aden stopped blocking or dodging, focusing only on  _ fucking Ran’jit up _ as much as possible. The blows were meaningless, anyroad. Ran’jit spared a moment to throw Thancred back, landing a blow like he’d landed against Aden  _ several _ times now, and Thancred stayed on his knees in front of the others, jaw set, glaring  _ intensely _ at Aden. There was…  _ something _ there. His lips moved. Aden didn’t hear it.

His heart beat once more--and not again. He counted seconds between harsh breaths. Not enough time.

Aden was halfway to his knees when Ran’jit struck him again and threw him back towards the others. He crumpled, caught himself with the sword, and at the  _ second _ his vision fuzzed out a soothing wash of healing spread through him, quickly and carefully popped his broken ribs back into place and…  _ whatever else _ Ran’jit had broken. It  _ hurt _ , especially having what a chirurgeon usually took their time with done in less than a second on the battlefield, but only for that second--and in the midst of it he felt that now-familiar wash of aether again: ancient power, cool crystal, the last warmth of sunset. Then the drone of the Tower filled his ears, a ring of symbols he hadn’t seen in  _ years _ lighting up in the air around him--

The Allagan teleporter dropped them on their feet well outside the assault area, and they hit the ground running, Lyna saluting them before turning to make her way back to the staging area. “Come on!” Thancred shouted, taking the lead.

“What about--”

“ _ You’ve delayed this enough!” _ Thancred shouted back at him, and Aden glared at the back of the man’s head but kept to himself, letting the frost across his Crystarium armor sublime. This was plan B, he realized, and he’d  _ stubbornly _ almost fucked it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I finally get to add a second job tag to the story.


	9. Unto the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Il Mheg grants an unexpected moment of reprieve.

They trundled their way through pea soup fog that smelled of flowers and morning dew, occasionally stumbling on a patch of riotously colored flowers--and in Alphinaud’s case, quite _ literally _ stumbling as a clump of them made an indignant sound and a pixie shot out of it. By the time they made their way to what passed for a village Aden was ready to throttle someone--and _ exhausted_. The Exarch had healed his body--and Aden had _ questions _ about that, but he didn’t have the mental capacity to dwell on them overmuch--but the skills he’d employed took a toll regardless. It was rather like having a nasty hangover without the _ fun _ part, though he’d never been a fan of the _ fun _ part either. That fine edge of dark power settled into place during the walk, sputtering fitfully when he reached into it for strength, quiet and sleepy around the cold stone where his heart should be, and that voice so like his own silent. _ Have all the fun and leave me with the cleanup, you lazy shit. _

He found Thancred’s looking grass with little trouble, though plucking it in a way that would leave the plant otherwise undamaged was difficult while keeping a hand on his sword. With his spear lost on the battlefield Aden was loathe to dismiss it, and while he knew he could push through _ damn near anything _ it’d be a waste of resources to form a new one or try to make an aetheric weapon when he had this on hand and could merely maintain it. It wasn’t a spear, but it was large enough to let him maintain some reach, so it’d do. He planted it while Thancred went about his diplomacy, leaning heavily on the weapon and glad for the moment’s reprieve. The Crystarium maille was light, at least, but if he was going to tangle with a _ lightwarden _ here he wanted heavy plate. Unless he could engineer a situation to use mobility to his advantage, but that would require a _ spear_, not…. Aden pressed his pounding head against the cool pommel of the sword.

“Aden?” Alphinaud’s voice came softly, quiet and close enough for private conversation while Thancred talked to the pixies.

He exhaled heavily and straightened up. His back still hurt despite the healing, and he could tell where ribs had broken despite being whole. It’d take a while for the pain to fade, though his back probably _ wouldn’t _ any time soon, but it was pain. Pain was nothing. “I’m fine.”

“Are you--”

“_I heard your bloody sternum crack,” _ Alisaie hissed, stepping up on his other side so that the twins flanked him. “Alphinaud, perhaps you should have a look at him while we have a moment?”

“It’s been taken care of,” Aden said, tonelessly. Even if they’d noticed the spell, he knew what they’d assume: it’d been battlefield healing. Things would be left undone, or wouldn’t set right, just _ well enough _ to get you back in the fight. Despite the pain Aden had walked away from the fight _ in better shape than when he went in, _ save for the after effects of his own abilities. That was possible with a healer who knew you very, very well, and had been treating you for years, not a stranger you barely knew.

“What do you--”

“Well, there you have it.” None of them had noticed Thancred finishing, and now he stood before them resignedly with Minfilia meekly at his side. “Pixie chores. I suggest we split up.”

“Pixie chores?” Alisaie repeated.

“Weren’t you listening?” Thancred looked like he lacked the energy to glower, glancing between the three of them, then to Minfilia, and back to Alisaie. He shook his head, shoulders slouching ever so faintly. One of Aden’s ears shifted slightly, curious as to what the _ hells _ that look was. “We’re to complete tasks for them in exchange for lifting the enchantment.”

Aden _ laughed_, but it wasn’t _ at all _ a sound of mirth, dark and a little surprised. “No,” he said, and turned away, hefting the sword over one shoulder and heading away from the square.

“Beg your pardon, _ what _?” Thancred shouted after him.

“We don’t have time for this shit,” Aden called back. Truth be told, he was too weary to give a damn about petty requests from childlike tyrants, and too _ tired _ by far. He felt like he could curl into a corner somewhere and sleep despite the unending light, and it was dangerous. He’d already given too much away today, and the twins sought even more--a tired mind might let something slip. Aden needed to be _ sharp_. “I’m fixing this.”

He stopped within sight of everyone, wary of magically losing his way in the heavy mist, and shouted, “Feo Ul!” Aden stood there looking like a fool for a long time, a light breeze kicking up to disturb the flowers but not the mist. Just as he opened his mouth to shout again a soft, petulant voice sounded around him.

"So! My sapling has finally remembered about his lovely branch!"

_ Oh_, he saw where _ this _was going. Aden resisted the urge to sigh, and instead tilted his head back, looking up into the endless gray. "How could I forget you? Please, Feo Ul--I need you!" Immediately he grimaced; it sounded fake. His exhaustion showed through, and there was no chance they'd stop there.

"Hmph, is that your idea of a fervent call? A sodden log could do it with more fire!"

_ Fire. Right. _ Rolling his eyes, ears flicking to the sides, Aden contemplated giving them _ fire_. But he imagined Feo Ul's response to invective, and thought better of it. Instead he took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and tried to recall certain scenes from plays he'd read, the sweet words he'd heard bards sing, and the way in which certain people who'd earned the privilege had teased him, even if it pained him to remember. His tired brain chugged for a long moment, but he spoke even before he opened his eyes. "Loveliest of branches, most enchanting of blooms, would that I possessed infinite foresight to know what injury I'd done you before I struck the blow. Would that I possessed mastery over time, to turn back the clock and unmake the tragedy of not calling you to my side." Feo Ul appeared, one hand on their chin, peering keenly down at him as if he had just said something rather prescient. They said nothing, hovering imperiously, so he continued by dropping to his knees dramatically. "Dearer to me than my own flesh and blood limbs you are, and I would sever them that I may not act but with you as my hand, should it please you." Aden brought the sword down in an uncomfortable one handed grip, letting the blade hover over his other arm, and looked up at Feo Ul. "I beseech you, grant me your succor."

"Well, that wasn't half bad." They flitted down, still peering keenly at him, inspecting his face with the manner of a curious bird. "_Inspired, _ even. And maybe a touch familiar…." And then they _ exploded _ in his face. "You're late! Late, late, late!" Aden startled, nearly lost his hold on the sword--which would’ve been _ unpleasant _ but not catastrophic, with no weight behind the blow and quality maille in the way. He reaffirmed his grip, maintaining his position as he weathered Feo Ul’s thorough tongue-lashing. “Much as it pleases me to see you like this,” they finally said, “on your feet! We’ve some pixies to sort out!”

“One more thing, if it _ please _ you, loveliest of branches.” Aden stood as bade, and hefted the sword onto his shoulder once more. “I find myself bereft of heavier armor, and--”

“Abso_lutely _ not!” Feo Ul raised into the air a little further, lifting their chin imperiously. “What’s wrong with what you’ve got?”

“It’s maille and leather,” he said, “and that’d be fine if I weren’t planning for the possibility of getting the absolute _ shit _ kicked out of me. Without the same _ quality _ of backup I had the first time I fought a Lightwarden.” He’d survive--probably--but without the Exarch at his side it was going to _ hurt _ a lot more.

“But it’s _ his_. It’s what _ his people wear_, and you’re one of _ his people_\--more than most I’d wager. Besides, his colors suit you. Abso_lutely _ not,” Feo Ul repeated, and flitted past him towards the place he’d left the Scions.

“What the fuck does that mean,” Aden called after Feo Ul, but he never got an answer.

* * *

Urianger put a kettle on while Thancred made sure Minfilia was well and truly distracted outside, and Aden dropped heavily into one of the chairs around a cluttered table, chainmaille clinking faintly. He leaned the sword against the table, pressing his knee into the flat of the blade to maintain contact with it and continue feeding it the small amounts of aether needed to keep it manifested. 

“The Exarch did send word that thou wouldst seek me out, but ne'er did I imagine thou wouldst arrive so soon…”

“I think we were meant to come here next anyroad,” Aden said, watching the elezen put together tea for three. “But the circumstances were… unexpected.”

“So ‘twould seem.” 

The tall man moved delicately, no motion wasted or out of place, and Aden worried at the inside of his cheek with his teeth as he watched, a question taking shape in his mind. He was too tired for this conversation, to articulate his experiences properly, but if he meant to have it with someone… Urianger was his best option other than Y’shtola, and Twelve only knew when they’d see her. “Who is he?”

Urianger straightened, looking over his shoulder. “Whom dost thou mean?”

Aden closed his eyes, inhaling sharply through his nose. The house smelled strongly of books and ink and tea, and as much as he wanted to relax into that he couldn’t. It’d been the wrong question. “The Exarch knows me. _ Intimately_. Better than any Scion. Better than Minfilia did. Hells, better than my fucking physicker in Ishgard. He fell into step with me on the battlefield in a way that should take _ years _ to accomplish. He healed me at range and put broken bones back in place _ correctly_.” He opened his eyes, leaning back in the chair and staring up at the ceiling. “I’ve been healed on the battlefield enough times to know that’s only possible if you know someone inside out. So how’s a man I’ve known for a matter of _ weeks _ know _ where all my ribs go?” _

“Would that I possessed answers to give thee,” Urianger responded. “I prithee, accept this in their stead: our ally in the Tower possessed a capacity to work miracles rivaling thine own. Perhaps what appears as knowledge of thee is in truth a gift.”

Aden looked down abruptly, eyes narrowing. “Are you suggesting he has the blessing?”

“Nay, merely that the depth of the Exarch’s wisdom and skill conceal many abilities, amongst which may lie that which trouble thee.” The kettle whistled, and Urianger snatched a scrap of a towel out of his clutter to grab the handle with, and began pouring for tea. “Mark thee, however, that should he possess such gifts, ‘twould not surprise me."

Urianger brought everything over, setting a steaming mug sized for an elezen in front of Aden, and one where Thancred would sit as well. “Pray, trust him.”

Aden wrapped both hands around the mug, pleased for the heat chasing away the ache in his bones. Calling the sword typically left a wretched swatch of badly frostburned skin across his palms, and while the Exarch’s healing had fixed it, it still hurt. “I do,” he said quietly, giving Urianger a pointed look over the mug as he lifted it. “I trust him more than I should. He’s dangerous.” Urianger didn’t need to know about their quiet evenings spent in conversation. That the Exarch had cut through his defenses with scalpel precision in record time. If it were a _ gift_, it beggared belief in its accuracy. As he lifted the mug to his lips a stray thought flitted across his tired mind, _ perhaps some people are made to know one another_. He took a sip of too-hot-to-drink tea--and nearly spit it out in surprise. Aden’s ears abruptly canted forward, his tail raising to curl a little, much higher than usual, and he looked up at Urianger in shock. Then he remembered to swallow before opening his mouth. “Where the fuck did you--”

The door opened and closed, and Aden quickly composed himself. Urianger gave him a small, self-satisfied smile. “I pray the coffee is to thy liking?”

“Coffee?” Thancred asked. He rounded the table to the open chair, but did not sit. “Since when have you let coffee within a five malm radius of yourself, Urianger?” He picked up his own mug, sniffed it to be sure it contained whatever he preferred, then took a sip.

“These past years I have kept some on hand, for the day when Aden wouldst stand upon mine doorstep, ragged and weary.”

“Tea’s fine,” Aden mumbled, as he got the distinct feeling Urianger was _ teasing _ him. “But thanks. Anyroad, let’s get to it. Alphinaud and Alisaie are probably hung up in a tree by their underthings by now, waiting for us to rescue them.”

It was the last moment of levity they had for a long time.

* * *

At length they decided, _ despite _ the coffee, to leave Aden a few moments to rest while Thancred and Urianger delivered their offering to the pixies. For once Aden didn’t argue; he wanted a clear head to think over everything Urianger had told him. He wanted, if only for a few minutes, the _ hurting _ to stop. He was uncomfortable using Urianger’s personal quarters, so he dragged out a couple of spare blankets and closed the room back up, finding a sheltered corner upstairs to curl into.

He’d nearly drifted off when soft footsteps caught his attention. He turned an ear in Minfilia’s direction, and when she stopped close by, shifting her weight anxiously, he mumbled, “Yeah?”

“Um.” Aden cracked open his eyes to peer up at her tiredly. She clutched a book to her chest, and when she noticed his gaze she anxiously looked away. “I was wondering… I don’t… that is… do you mind if I sit near you to read? I don’t--don’t like being alone.”

Her shout on the battlefield of, _ I won’t go back to that cell! _ cracked across his mind like thunder, and for the briefest moment the Echo fuzzed the edges of his vision. Aden resisted, not wanting _ that _ headache on top of everything else, but the impressions broke through: _ loneliness. Isolation. The deep fear that she’d done something to deserve this, and if only she’d be good in the right way they’d come back, they’d love her-- _

Aden sat upright, adjusting the nest of blankets. The feelings were uncomfortably familiar, and he avoided looking directly at her as he did it. But finally he patted the spot next to him. He couldn’t think of anything else to do--comforting people wasn’t his forte (quite the opposite, in fact), and he couldn’t look directly at the ugly mess those feelings still made in him, tied up in all the things buried beneath that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be.

“Are you sure? Thancred was very particular that I shouldn’t disturb you.”

“Fuck what Thancred said,” Aden said, looking over her shoulder rather than right at her. She startled, and he grinned. “What are you reading?”

“Oh, it’s just a stuffy old thing.” She wrinkled her nose as she sat down, shrugging with the book in her arms. She leaned back against the heavy stack of crates he’d curled up behind, sitting with as much distance between them as she could while still sharing the space. “A warrior like yourself wouldn’t be interested. That is--not to insult your intelligence, I mean, I’m sure--”

“I’m very fond of stuffy old things,” he told her, in as gentle a tone as he could manage in his current state. “I give Urianger a run for his money in the number of books I go through in a sennight on top of everything else I do. I’ve helped write a few, too, the kinds of things perhaps ten people have read because they’re specialized tomes on botany or ancient civilizations Now tell me what it is before I have to look myself.”

“Oh,” she looked on him with new eyes, that sleepy, downtrodden expression suddenly vanished. “Well, in that case, it’s--”

* * *

Upon returning some bells later with the twins in tow, Thancred found Aden and Minfilia in the loft, one of the blankets strung up between crates like a child’s blanket fort. It kept the eternal light out quite effectively. Aden sat with his legs outstretched and arms crossed, asleep in the Crystarium armor like it was nothing--though at least he’d removed some of the fittings. And Minfilia sat next to him, book in her lap, head leaned on his shoulder, fast asleep. Jealousy seized him for a moment--he’d worked hard for moons to reach a comfort level like that with Minfilia, and here Aden had swept in and charmed the girl into his graces in a matter of bells. But then he looked on them, _ really _ looked. Beneath the road and battle grime Aden looked his age in sleep, tragically young for everything he’d been through. It reminded Thancred of guiltily hauling Aden, soot-streaked and badly burned, from the remains of an Amalj’aa encampment what seemed like ages ago. He’d been wholly unprepared to fight a primal by himself, but done it--and won. It was so easy to fall prey to the image of the Warrior of Light, unbreakable, but when he searched his memories and his heart he knew better. Aden was a man, barely more than a child--only two or three years older than the twins, was it?--and fragile as a man.

Thancred looked away, shamed. His jealousy was an ugly thing. Aden was closer in age to Minfilia than to him, for all his maturity, and they had at least _ two _ things in common. He couldn’t begrudge them an easy friendship. They both deserved better than the world had given them.

He made his way back downstairs, and told the others quietly, “Perhaps we should take the opportunity to rest ourselves. Once we go to deal with the Fuath, I imagine things will progress apace.”

It had everything to do with giving his dear Minfilia a much-deserved peaceful rest with her namesake’s old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try cutting segments into more chapters, to make this easier to read and easier for me to write.
> 
> And of course Feo Ul ships it.
> 
> To address the issue of age/timeline: I know we have an official timeline, but for purposes of this story's continuity ARR through SB+ takes just shy of five years. Aden was halfway through 19 at the start of ARR.


	10. Acht-la Ormh Inn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king is dead, long live the king.

Aden struggled to the surface from some abyssal darkness to the sensation of shaking, hands fisted in the jerkin over his armor but _ very carefully _ making no appreciable contact with him. If they moved just right they might rip the fabric, they tried so hard to keep it apart from the maille and from his body. “Wake up! Wake up, damn you!” He growled, swatting at them, and they let go before he made contact.

He opened his eyes to the uncomfortable sensation of water on them, the feeling of it in his lungs, and grimaced up at the light filtering through the lake’s surface. His head felt… weird, and he’d hit it enough times in his life to recognize a mild concussion. The dampeners had fulfilled their secondary purpose and taken most of the hit, surely. “Oh, you're alive! Thank the gods. I don't know where you learned to breathe underwater, but it's lucky you can.”

Aden scowled. _ Oh. _ Ardbert. The shade’s voice washed over him, strangely clear through the water, as he tried to recall what’d happened after the Fuath got _ even weirder _ . But everything fuzzed around the roar of rushing water, and he decided it’d be wise to get moving before they came to collect _ whatever _ they expected to be left of him. Aden righted himself, had the stray thought _ why the hells didn’t I float _, and started--

The submerged buildings caught his eye. Aden jerked his head in their direction. “You know this place?”

“That's the royal capital of the Kingdom of Voeburt down there. It's seen better days.” The shade followed his gaze with a sad little smile, and then, unexpectedly, painted an image with his words--one in which Aden easily placed familiar locations, familiar figures. Once the mist lifted he’d had a vague feeling of familiarity, finally able to see the landscape. Now he… understood. All the regions he’d been to thusfar had been eerily similar in their own way, strange mirrors of places on the Source.

“This was Coerthas,” Aden whispered, too shocked for anything louder.

“Coerthas?”

“Where I’m from originally.” When Aden looked up that sad smile fled the shade’s face for one of quiet consideration. “I grew up somewhere else, but I’m….” He looked back down. The buildings were different, the land lush and green, but Coerthas had been too before the last Calamity. “Everything here’s a reflection of something on the Source, but for some reason I didn’t expect…” How easily he imagined Foundation in ruins. He’d seen it halfway there, after all.

For a long moment both fell silent, regarding the remains of the city. Ardbert’s past promised his future if the next Calamity struck. Dwelling on the ruins proved a macabre meditation, and all the same he wanted to make time to explore them. He wanted to… remember these people he’d never met, who were and were not his countrymen.

“Everything we did...everything we gave... What was it for?” Aden swallowed thickly at Ardbert’s words. “I wond─ I hope you'll have a better answer than this when all's said and done.”

He did, but it lay beneath a cold, heavy stone.

* * *

On the shore Aden spent a good five minutes coughing the water out of his lungs. While he could go about his business like that, it was _ uniquely disconcerting _ to feel something sloshing where it shouldn’t. Spending so long doubled over and wheezing through forcing it all out was undignified, but he was beyond giving a damn. Maybe it was the fae nature of this place, the knowledge that at any moment he’d be at the whims of some warped childlike spirit a dozen times more deadly than a moogle or sylph, that stole some of his usual stoicism. He let Urianger see to the wounds he’d sustained during the fight and subsequent flood--minimal, thankfully--though he realized a glancing blow from Aenc Thon’s blade had pierced the jerkin and caught in the maille point-first, tearing a gash through the rings. It was more than he could fix, particularly with the materials available, though it surprised him--the Crystarium’s work seemed particularly fine, so it must have been one _ hell _ of a blow.

“Well, _ shit _,” he said, dropping the maille when he finished inspecting it. It hung awkwardly now, the gash an obvious opening. Aden looked up at Urianger and with a great deal of sarcasm, asked, “I don’t suppose you keep spare armor on hand?”

“Nay,” the elezen said quite seriously, as if it hadn’t been half an exasperated joke. “Of the two remaining bearers of the relics, the Nu Mou are the nearer. We shall seek them out next, as they may be of some assistance to thee.”

“Great, faerie armor. What’s it going to be, flowers and a tea service?” Fortunately the messenger from Lydha Lran appeared _ after _ that comment to deliver their dreadful news.

* * *

Aden reassessed his _ flowers and a tea service _ comment on meeting the Nu Mou--it’d be _ mushrooms _ and a tea service, clearly. But he kept that to himself, as Urianger had stressed the importance of respect. He needed to compose himself anyroad from this strange mood that’d fallen over him since waking in Urianger’s home.

The elder sent him off with an obvious glance at the gash in his armor, and Aden approached Marn Ose in careful consideration. He _ wanted _ plate to face the lightwarden--a faerie king, apparently--but he _ needed _ what he had, because it was _ all _ he had. This might be the most important thing he did aside from gathering the relics, so he waited until the artisan lost count of his leaves before speaking up. “Marn Ose, I presume?”

The artisan shouted in panic, looking up at him in confusion, then keen observation, eyes glittering bright and strangely hungry. “Wait, you're a...a mortal!? Huzzah! Huzzah!”

“Aden Dellebecque,” he said, and sketched a polite bow--not _ too _ deep, recalling Urianger’s cautioning words and assuming they applied to social exchanges as well. “I am under the impression you can assist me with repairing my armor?”

“Yes,” Morn gestured excitedly, “you've come to the right Nu Mou! I will restore your equipment to--oh, dear.” They waved a hand at the gash in his maille. “Take that off and let me have a look before I promise you any miracles.”

Aden stripped down to the padding with expert efficiency, and handed the maille over, Crystarium jerkin still in hand. Morn looked over the damage, hemming and hawing, and at length looked up and said, “It will take some time, but I can most certainly repair this for you!”

“I’m afraid I’m on a rather tight time table,” he said. If Ran’jit had followed them in it didn’t seem wise to stop until they made their goal. “How long is _ some time _?”

“Oh, a week perhaps. We have no call for rings to hand, so I must forge them anew, and if I am to match the quality of these I must take care. All quite _ easy _ mind you, but I would not insult such artistry with less than equivalent work. Ah, but I can see in your eyes that a week will not suffice.” Morn Ose smiled wistfully, glancing away for a moment. “How fondly I recall the impatient need of young knights. But in those days I kept materials at hand, and could work the miracles they required.” They looked back at him, suddenly sizing him up. “Speaking of materials at hand… I may have an alternative, if you are willing. A young knight left a set of armor with me that needed reconditioning, and he never returned. I have kept it in repair all these years and bolstered the enchantments on it as… a memorial of sorts, to all that we have lost. But you seem to be of a size, I believe, and it should take very minimal modifications.” Morn Ose offered the damaged maille back to him. “I think it fitting that the armor be returned to its purpose after so long.”

They discussed the specifics and fair recompense before Morn Ose ushered him inside one of the little mushroom dwellings and bade him strip all the way down to his underthings to take measurements. He saw the set, and kept his opinions about how it looked to himself--it seemed sturdy leather, and while he had the same concerns with it that he had about the maille in a truly fraught fight, it was better than nothing. Aden put the Crystarium maille back on, as he felt _ exposed _ without armor, and went to tell the others the _ slightly less bad news _ that they’d be here a sun regardless of how long the elder took to give them an answer.

Hopefully the pixies gave Eulmore hells long enough.

* * *

Halfway through the work that would earn him a _ spear _ , Twelve be bloody praised these faeries were so sentimental about their old knights, he felt eyes upon him--not the warning beat of the Echo, but tension in his neck, the _ press _ of instinct that some combination of senses detected observation. Aden turned in time to see blond hair and a white dress disappear behind a bend in the cave, and he stared down the passageway for a moment before going back to his work. Minfilia was possibly the absolute _ last _ person whose observation concerned him.

Aden felt only relief at the realization it _ wasn’t _ her, not the way he’d thought it would be. And he felt guilty for thinking she’d resort to the art they’d watched the sahagin priest employ. Clearly the girl bore some connection to her, with the eerie eyes of the Word of the Mother, but it wasn’t… _ that _. Minfilia hadn’t subsumed her.

That didn’t make it any less weird to call her _ Minfilia _.

She intercepted him on his way out to conduct another errand for--_ grant his patronage to _\--one of the Nu Mou, hiding down the tunnel he took out of the village and popping in front of him. Aden hadn’t heard her, quite a feat. His ears canted forward and his tail stiffened in alarm when she appeared--but he didn’t reach for his spear. She stood there for a moment, hands clasped behind her, so he asked, “Yes?”

Minfilia took an audible breath. “E-Excuse me, Aden, but I couldn't help overhearing. If you mean to undertake this task, will you let me accompany you?” She refused to make eye contact, sleepy blue gaze cast at the floor.

Aden glanced over his shoulder to check where Thancred was, and after determining the answer to be _ nowhere in hearing distance _, he walked up to Minfilia and put a hand on her shoulder, gently turning her around to face the same direction as him and ushered her out of the cave. “Did you ask Thancred’s permission?”

A soft, surprised and mildly _ upset _ sound escaped her. “N-no, he wouldn’t--”

“Good,” Aden said, and continued gently guiding her away from the settlement. “Do you know where we’re headed?”

Seeing the moment his meaning dawned on her made this whole godsdamn trip into Il Mheg worth it. Aden fought against a smile at joy spreading across her face, that sleepy expression swept away before it. She reminded him of himself. She reminded him of G’raha, as so many things in this strange world did. And most of all, he wondered if Minfilia had always had this in her heart, too, and if so what had made her stand behind a desk instead of fight. Need, perhaps. The Scions had plenty of soldiers, but few politicians.

“Yes!” she answered, excitedly. “I’ve been here many times--well, not here specifically, but I know Il Mheg well enough to get us there.”

Aden gave her a gentle push. “Go head, then. You’re in charge, I’ve got your back.”

She took a few hesitant steps away from him and stopped, half turning to look up at him. “Are you sure?”

Aden just nodded, and then gave her a crisp Crystarium salute. She smiled, and nodded back with all the command an uncertain child her age could muster, and led the way.

* * *

  


They met back up at the designated place and Minfilia relayed her encounter in the caverns while Aden listened intently, staunchly resisting the urge to twitch his ears at any sound around them and keeping them canted forward. “I haven't seen much actual combat, so I was a little nervous, but I'm happy I could help.” She sounded almost apologetic, and she clutched at the fabric of her dress, wringing it a little. “The Minfilias before me battled sin eaters as part of the Eulmoran Army. But that had all changed by the time I was found. They held me captive so that I wouldn't follow in the others' footsteps.” And there it was--confirmation of what he’d gathered from her words to Ran’jit, and her behavior. “I'd still be in my cell now had Thancred not spirited me away. When he found me, I knew nothing of the world. I didn't know how to live, let alone fight.”

“You’ve done just fine so far.” Aden kept his tone stern rather than gentle--he didn’t want to sound patronizing, he wanted to sound _ serious _. As if assessing a soldier under his command in the Alliance. “I’d trust you at my back.” He trusted himself to keep an ear on her in the middle of a fight, but that wasn’t what she needed to hear.

She looked down, frowning deeply, still worrying at the fabric of her dress with her fingers. “Thancred once told me that if the efforts to summon you failed, it would fall to me to face the Lightwardens. I realized then that it was the only reason he kept me close─as a contingency.” Aden knew he should protest that, but it was such a _ wrong-headed _ (true) and _ daft _(familiar) thing to say he couldn’t form words. “The truth is, he can't stand to be around me.” He opened his mouth to retort, and closed it abruptly, staring hard at her. That cold, heavy stone in his chest felt strangely--

“Because I'm not her. I'm not his Minfilia.” The narrative shifted. Her words snapped him out of--whatever almost happened. Aden kept his arms crossed, clenched his hands _ hard _ to distract himself. This was about _ her _ . He couldn’t--even if her words-- She told him about the incident in Nabaath Araeng, and he very deliberately hung on her every word, drowned out _ whatever the fuck that was _ with her story. “Was I meant to tell you something? Or bring you to someone? Or somewhere? I can feel the answer at the edge of my mind, just out of reach─”

“Minfilia.” He unclenched his hands, dropped them to his sides, and crouched down in front of her. She startled and looked up with those eerie blue eyes. Aden met them with his own mismatched, unnerving gaze. “I knew her. Not as long as Thancred, but I knew her in ways he didn’t.” They’d shared the blessing, after all. And Minfilia, of all of them, had _ tried _ . It hadn’t always worked, but she’d… _ tried _ . It hurt to remember her, put uncomfortable pressure on that cold, heavy stone _ . _ But this wasn’t about him. This was about a little girl, surrounded by people but alone. “Whatever she wanted, she wouldn’t want it to weigh on you like this. It’ll come in time. Be patient.”

“But we don’t have _ time _ for patience! Ran’jit is following us, and you’re _ here _ now and the night’s returned in Lakeland and everything’s happening so _ quickly--” _

A horrible, discordant noise cut her off, a wail, a _ plea _, as if on cue to prove her right. They were running out of time.

* * *

Aden felt dozens of inhuman eyes on him as they entered Wolkendorf, tension building in his neck and the hairs along his tail prickling. The Echo remained silent, but his ears shifted constantly, keeping track of every sound.

He was unprepared when he woke Seto to see the amaro open his beak and mumble a familiar name. Aden tried to keep his expression neutral, but his ears perked. The deep, rumbly voice seemed to fit, and he wasn't sure what he'd expected but felt it _ should _have been this. The watchful gaze of the other amaro in the village pricked his senses throughout the conversation even as Urianger took them aside and bade them go and learn something of the village. "A gentle touch shall suffice by way of a greeting."

"They won't find being _ petted _ demeaning?" Urianger gave Aden an exasperated look, but a hint of something else lingered within as well.

He puzzled on that all about the village, wondering if he should _ introduce _ himself before --? But Urianger called it a _ greeting, _ and he'd lived here for some years. So finally Aden selected an amaro and ambled up to them. The creature turned their head towards him, pointedly inspecting him. “Well now... It is not often that we are visited by men─much less unglamoured ones. And if my eyes do not deceive me, outfitted as one of this noble country’s own knights. What brings you so far from your own kind, and what circumstances attired you such?” They sounded wary in a _ polite _ way--something Aden expected from people of breeding, and he bit back an amused sound at the unintentional pun.

“I came to ask a boon of Seto,” Aden answered. “One he will not grant.” And he did as Urianger had instructed, petting the Amaro as if it were a chocobo.

That elicited a _ delighted _ sound, a low _ chirring _ noise, and Aden smiled in spite of himself as the amaro ducked their head and closed their eyes. "And--" another low, pleased sound escaped them, leaning into it as he found a sweet spot and really dug in, careful about how he moved his hand to avoid catching feathers in his gauntlet, "--the armor? It has not escaped our attention, and many of my brethren are-- _ khrrr _\--reminded of those we have lost.”

_ Oh _. He almost said it aloud--no wonder they stared openly. Morn Ose had said the armor belonged to a Voeburtite knight, not that it was right and proper knightly regalia, but it made some sense now that they’d held onto it for so long. “My apologies,” he said, considering his words carefully. “I acquired the armor from the Nu Mou after my own was too damaged to repair quickly. I was not aware it was so significant.”

They continued leaning into his strokes as he slowed. “You were unawares, and little blame lies with you. Yet, I cannot help but be reminded of my master's hand…”

“Tell me about him?”

Aden regrouped with the others after making his rounds of the village, asking every amaro who would indulge him to tell their story. Time stopped mattering, only the thin threads of melancholy wrapped around that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be. Only longing for a place he’d never been yet so like the homeland he’d been denied through his formative years, and an overwhelming need to rush home and throw his arms around Keva’s neck. The destrier was surely giving his grooms hell by now, ornery as he was for everyone but Aden.

Funny how of all the things he'd buried under that weight, this remained.

So he did everything Seto asked of him without complaint, gladly stood by his side for the test and risked the wrath of the Fuath to retrieve his medallion. And he'd do more, if necessary. He'd do it until Eulmore drew within sight.

He felt Ardbert's presence without looking for him, knew the shade watched and listened keenly. There was a sort of resonance between them, something he couldn't explain and had wanted to ignore. But he couldn't hate the man, channel his frustration at his situation into him, after seeing how much he meant to Seto. _ He's here _ , Aden wanted to say. _ He knows. I'll speak to him for you. _But with the others close at hand and time short, he knew he shouldn't. Duty demanded he gather himself up and soldier on.

Later, when this was over.

After the pixies delivered their news and the remaining Scions made ready to head back towards Lydha Lran, Thancred hesitated a moment, looking down and ambling in that way that means a man has something awkward to say. Finally he clapped Aden on the shoulder with one hand, made steady eye contact. "I know you don't hear this often, but… you'll be alone in there."

"Be careful?" Aden guessed. One ear flicked, but he kept his annoyance out of his voice.

"No," Thancred said, a grim little smile curling his lips. "Cut loose. You don't have anyone to look after, so… get it out of your system, perhaps?" He didn't wait for a response, but Aden couldn't have tendered one anyroad, too shocked by the sentiment.

Seto provided the expected sentiment instead. "I could not say these words to Ardbert, but I say them now to you: go safely."

Aden lingered just a moment while the others rushed off, waiting until they were out of earshot. Seto said one thing, and meant many more. "He knows," would have to do for now. By the deep, curious trill the great amaro made, the wording was not lost on him. _ Knows. _ Not _ knew. _

And Aden made for Lyhe Ghiah with all haste.

* * *

Titania slicked the floor of their palace in water the split second before Aden landed from a leap out of the swing of her staff, and he slid, catching himself on hip and elbow. An _ environmental hazard _ rather than a direct attack triggered no warning beat from the Echo, and he doubted not that she’d catch on quick. They followed it up almost immediately with a swell of fire conjured overhead, and Aden threw one arm up, instinctively drawing on the deep cold of the stone where his heart should be. His armor frosted over, the softer parts going stiff, and a cold blackness shot through with bloody aether met Titania’s fire.

He didn’t need to hide it here. Possibly for the _ first _ time he could wield both dragonsong and stoke this fine edge of dark power to a searing cold blaze. _ Cut loose _, Thancred had said--he grinned at that. Aden froze to the floor, but he broke it easily when Titania released their fire with a battle-drunk giggle.

“We’re sick of this cramped old castle!” They rose further from the floor, sweeping their staff wide, and a look of rapturous, maddening joy overtook their face. “Let’s play in the forest.”

Primals often exhibited control over their immediate environment, warping it to suit their whims, but it proved temporary as their summoning, a veneer of power settled over reality. The grass sprouting beneath Aden’s feet and the trees surging up around him were something _ wholly different _ . Mastery over the elements, indeed--as far as he knew it was _ real _ , the flagstone utterly consumed in a wash of aether and _ converted wholesale _ . Thick roots and brambles followed, clawing their way up through the ground and sprawling out at an unnatural speed. For a moment Aden managed only to keep his footing and to sidestep the writhing wood, unable to secure a safe place from which to strike--by design, surely. The brambles forced him to the edge of the clearing, and one of the massive trees off the side _ lurched _ at him. Aden spotted a gap in the roots some distance sway while Titania soared ever higher, humming snatches of song and not-quite-right nursery rhyme. He launched himself at it, narrowly avoiding a swipe from the mobile tree’s massive limb--and as he landed _ yet another _ lunged, limbs heavy with wisteria in the process of blooming as it moved. A third source of the terrible groaning, creaking sounds of treants joined the chorus, and by some strange miracle a blow landed in the center of the clearing, crushing brambles and throwing him clear of the second treant’s swipe. 

The brambles quickly overtook him as he hauled himself from the ground, and Aden strained to rip free of them. Tendrils wrapped around his spear, attempting to tear it from his grasp. He snarled, letting the song surge through him and sent a wash of raw aether down the spear. The grasping brambles on his spear withered and died, and the shifting of the others finally brought his feet to something solid. Aden jumped with a horrible shriek of tearing wood, only managed enough height to plunge his spear into a limb of the second treant as it drew back for another blow. Using the treant’s momentum he swung up, ripping his spear out and landing on top of the limb. One of the others landed a fearsome blow where he’d been bound to the ground.

He looked up at the third one, watching it haul back once more, and started moving, shifting his weight to keep balance on top of the corded wisteria vines each thick as his thigh that made up the one he’d mounted. The problem with fighting treants or anything woody was that you could pound on them for an age without hitting anything vital, and a _ spear _ was certainly the wrong weapon for it regardless of how much power he put behind it. But another _ treant _\--Aden positioned himself on its shoulder nearest the one about to strike, and as the Echo beat heavy over the static buzz of the Lightwarden he remained in place. He launched himself at Titania just in time to feel the harsh wind accompanying the sweeping limb, splinters showering his back as one slammed into the other.

“Oh! You’ve come to play with us again.” They reeled on him, sensing his presence somehow, and caught his spear against their staff, twisting it aside and battering him to the ground with stunning force. Aden _ bounced _ off that grassy spot cleared of brambles, teeth clacking together jarringly hard, and the enchantments on the leather armor and the dampeners fired at the same time, the two magics resonating off one another. He tasted mythril in the clash of aether, and saw Titania’s column of flame bearing down on him at the same time as a treant’s fist. Aden rolled _ into _ the blow from the treant, trying to get within the circle of its branches. At the last moment he abandoned his spear, curled into as small a target as possible, and let that fine edge of dark power suffuse him.

_ Incredible _ heat surrounded him, nearly rival to Ifrit’s inferno, but the swinging limb took the brunt of it. Rather than a crushing blow embers showered him, burning through the frost and blackness to singe fur and hair. The treant roared with a voice like leaves in a windstorm as it caught fire. Aden opened his eyes in time to see the blaze whip into its canopy and send it reeling back.

“_ You’re CHEATING!” _ The Echo all but screamed at him. Aden uncurled, lunged for his spear, and rolled to his feet in one fluid motion as Titania bore down on him with a vicious swipe of her staff. A wash of aether broke over him, and Aden braced himself with all the force of a jump. Chills and heat chased over his skin, he _ tasted _ a kaleidoscope of colors, and the magic utterly obliterated what remained of the burning treant behind him. He’d been through worse, though, and _ recently _. Aden growled deep in his chest, took a step forward against the force of their magic.

As the last vestiges of the blast dissipated they waved their staff again, and a great crystal erupted from the ground beneath him, grasping earth attempting to encase him as the roots had. Aden shifted his weight around the growth of it, senses hypertuned. He knew the feel of their aether now, sick with Light, and no longer needed to look to move around these elemental expressions. This was all more real than what a primal generated, but not _ true _ . Overaspected mockeries, cutouts of Light for a grand play--even the remaining treant. He rode the crystal growth up into the air, jumped from it, consuming its momentum in the leap, doubling it, _ tripling _ it. At the apex of the jump where he hung weightless he gave in to the song burning in his veins, breathed it out in a visible nimbus of cold blue aether. For one eternal moment he was both a man, flesh and fur and blessing; and the part of him that resonated to Nidhogg’s song, thrilled at the rush of Hraesvelgr’s power, foster son of Midgarsormr, heir to what Thordan and his knights had stolen but freely given and hard won. He sheathed himself in scales of aether, armed his spear with fangs of force. 

Aden jacknifed in mid-air, eyes blazing with inhuman power, and bore down on Titania with all the speed and might of a child of the Celestial Brood diving from the heavens. They lifted their staff, still shouting, ‘“Cheating! _ Cheating! We don’t want to play with you any more!” _ But whatever defenses they conjured held only for an instant. Aden’s spear pierced clean through, the head slipping in over Titania’s breastbone and out their back, slamming into the ground with shattering force and burying up past the socket. 

The Faerie King made a shocked, choking sound, staff clattering aside. Aden pushed, growling, and they twitched. “I’m not _ cheating _,” he snarled, “I’m changing the rules.”

They went limp, and Aden remained there, hands locked around the spear shaft in a deathgrip, heaving for breath as he came down from the vicious high of the power he’d summoned. Titania’s worldly form began to dissipate, and the constructs of Light around them. The Echo buzzed its warning drone again, but Aden didn’t care around that waning surge of power inside him. He’d shove all that Light down in the empty hole it left behind.

It settled into place as gently as before, and it only took a moment of concentration to return darkness outside. The light through the stained glass windows dimmed, and Aden found his spear buried in the unbroken flagstone of the palace floor. “Well, _ shit _.”

He abandoned his spear as a soft shower of light appeared at his side, and straightened to find Feo Ul hovering there, cooing his praises. They gestured, and the essence of the relics that’d unbarred the gates made itself known once more. Aden paid careful mind as they explained, sensing something _ serious _ in Feo Ul’s mischievous tone. “...The way into the castle is opened when it is time to relieve the reigning monarch of the throne. And the brave soul who does the deed has the honor of taking their place.”

And there it was, the _ true _ consequence of all this. He’d gathered in his dealings so far that all interactions with the fae incurred a cost, and surely _ slaying their king _ bore a hefty one--no less than his identity, it seemed. "However...should you ascend the throne, you will become one of us, never again to live as men do.” Aden entertained the thought quite seriously for a moment. Would he become an entirely new sort of fae? Something shaped by draconic aspect and blessing, a truer expression of his soul than this flesh and bone ripping itself out of him? To live in battle fervor, in the moment, untroubled by the trifling matters of owning a mortal heart… it tempted him. It tempted him more than he cared to admit.

Feo Ul turned on him, and seeing the fey light in his eyes sighed, gazing on him with loving sympathy. “My adorable sapling. My precious mortal. We fae folk live forever, but such is not your virtue.”

...They were right. Some wounds never healed, and no changing of forms could strip them from him, mortal heart or no. He would be a beast of grief and rage, cold darkness and blood. He would become as Nidhogg.

“To strive for a dream you will never see─to sow seeds that others might one day taste the fruits of your garden─that is the beauty of your kind.”

...To one day die, and know merciful peace at last from all he had buried beneath that stone and all he fought to keep at bay. He felt the hard press of a ring he no longer wore, the broad shoulders of a practiced archer in his embrace, the clap on one arm of a delicate hand and a flash of glittering blue eyes as a woman he would never see again begged him _ but a moment of your time, my friend. _ That stone _ burned _with frost inside him, soft whispers in a voice so like his own trying desperately to draw his mind from that edge.

He barely heard Feo Ul bid him, “Burn bright and shine as only you can. These blessings, your lovely branch will accept in your stead.” He only had ears for the rush of his own blood and the voices of those long-lost.

_ “Fuck!” _ But he _ damn well _ saw the light, flinching back from it. Aden blinked several times before his vision cleared, and found Feo Ul in their own version of Titania’s regalia hovering before him. “Give me a _ warning _ next time!” They grinned fondly, wickedly, and the spell of darkness over his mind broke easily as that.

“Shall we attend to those unwise enough to trespass in our realm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I get to write some really juicy stuff.


	11. Treacherous Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Exarch finds having what you want within your grasp is so much worse than lonely wanting. 
> 
> The Warrior of Light struggles once more with the reality of peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fantastic Birov helped me work out what Aden's beard looks like since it's off game model, and illustrated the flowers bit from this chapter, here: https://twitter.com/beansnake/status/1176294908384051200?s=19

He had faith Aden would triumph, but he knew better than anyone yet living just how mortal the Warrior of Light was. And so the Exarch once more gave word he was not to be disturbed, and watched as Aden battled the King of the Faeries. Here he would make good on the promise that had earned Feo Ul's loyalty after curiosity had earned their attention. Much rested on the outcome of this fight.

Alone, he needed not conceal his alarm when brambles and roots dragged Aden down, or his wince when Titania slammed him to the ground from midair. He tensed when that black energy appeared, cold and dark and sickly and strong all at once. He shuddered at the memory of it in Laxan Loft, how the immediate vicinity around the Warrior of Light had become cold as the dead of winter, and how he'd all but  _ felt  _ it draining the life from him, consuming some vital spark for power. It'd required such careful timing to heal; too soon and Aden would be back in the fray, too late and..

The Exarch forced himself to refocus on the fight. It seemed at every turn Aden revealed something new and terrible that’d happened to him, some part of himself he’d traded for the strength to hold up the world. His heart ached for that quiet young man he’d known--because as much as he’d sold himself the fiction that this was  _ not _ his Aden, was an entirely different person grown out of the remains of that young adventurer, it was a lie.

He reached out, fingers barely skimming the surface of the portal as Aden clad himself in draconic might and laid low the king of the faeries. It was  _ horrible _ and  _ beautiful _ , and him in there. It always had been. That young adventurer, stripped of all worldly ties, at his core would do anything to prevent others from suffering as he did. Even lose himself.

It seemed as ever they existed as mirrors of one another, for had he not done the same in binding himself to the Tower and denying all selfish desires? He’d stripped himself to the core, nearly an ascetic but where indulgence warmed the hearts of his people. Broken himself and forged himself anew for lack of Aden. He’d lost that brash young man he’d once been,  _ killed _ him for the strength to do what must be done.

He longed to stand at Aden’s side, to soothe his hurts, to shield him that he need not rely on that dark power. To give him hope when horrible temptation lit his eyes at Feo Ul’s explanation of the mantle of power. Instead he dismissed the scrying, and sank to the floor of the Ocular, staff settling against the crystal with a clatter.

He’d killed G’raha Tia and his reckless, hopeful heart, but his own long-buried sang for the man who’d grown out of the remains of his old friend. A true companion. Someone who would  _ understand _ . He had never wanted for it before, had not foreseen the need. Always the happiness of the citizens of the Crystarium and the hopes of a world long-lost had been enough. But now how he  _ craved _ that man who clad himself in draconic might and dark power, broken and bloodthirsty as he seemed.

The Exarch  _ prayed _ for the strength to see his plan through.

* * *

  
With the Eulmoran army chased out by a proper wild hunt, night restored, and a new king crowned, may They reign forever in glory, every lost soul in Il Mheg descended on the castle for a  _ proper _ faerie reel. Urianger begged off for the Scions, his negotiation skills with the fair folk absolutely unparalleled. They retreated to his home to rest, but nothing it seemed would prevent the kindly ones from stopping by to profess their gratitude in ever more elaborate ways. Pixies left gifts of flower wine, and several managed to march two leafman who’d been Eulmoran soldiers to flank the door by disenchanting them and letting them run screaming away until they got close enough. The nu mou stopped by with a number of trinkets, clearly stating they merely repaid the custom done unto them in driving out the mad king. Urianger graciously entertained all this while Thancred scavenged for something resembling food-- _ un _ enchanted, unlike the gifts the fae plied upon them--and the rest of them got the loft into some semblance of usefulness for sleeping. Minfilia stole nearly all of Urianger’s blankets, Aden and Alisaie moved crates to open more floor space, and Alphinaud tutted over lost books tucked here and there, ferrying them to less dangerous places.   


Now that he had time to reflect on it Aden found this strange, this little glimpse of Urianger’s private life--the distracted scholar, without a care for his surroundings save that tea be on hand. He’d known the man for years, but never quite so well as this short time with him revealed. And helping the twins and Minfilia with such a simple, domestic thing gave him an unexpected glimpse into their inner workings as well. He let them direct him as they willed, because he didn’t give a damn where or how he slept. Any regrets were a problem for the Aden of  _ tomorrow _ .

All Thancred managed out of Urianger’s stores amounted to a snack at best, but it was  _ something _ . In the middle of their meal, where the twins animatedly relayed their travails backing up the pixies against Eulmore, Urianger answered the door for yet another group of fae. A moment later he called for Aden, who pushed his bowl towards the three younger members of their group. “Don’t disappoint me,” he grumbled, and made for the door.

Urianger ushered him outside where a dozen fuath stood, including Aenc Thon. Aden stiffened, reaching for a spear that wasn’t there, but even as he did so the gathered fae all dropped to a knee in unison. “Warrior of Darkness, we are come to acknowledge your place at our King’s right hand, long may They reign. You bested our strongest, denied our gift, and restored night to our skies. With it will come rain, and new waters. Truly your gifts are mighty ones.”

He didn’t know proper fae etiquette for this, but he knew  _ Ishgardian _ etiquette, and it’d have to do. Aden gave them the bow he’d give when acting in his military capacity: shallow, curt. They paid him obeisance, and he acted like it. “Thank you, truly, for your kind words. Does this also mean our previous animosities are to be forgotten?”

“That is  _ your _ decision, sir knight. And the King’s, should They take issue with our attempt to claim you for our own.”

Oh,  _ that _ was interesting--and possibly useful. He’d have to talk to Feo Ul about it later. “You may rise, then, and rejoin the reel. Your words will find a way to Their ears.” Maybe, if he got around to it. Aden waited for the fuath to turn their backs first before going back into the house. He returned to the table expecting his bowl to be empty, but if anything it was half again as full. The others had already retired, so he had no one to glare at.

* * *

He dreamed of starlight, and crystal, and a long-forgotten, perpetually familiar warmth at his shoulder. But the details were fuzzy, and he woke only with vague impressions and an empty ache where the cold, heavy stone sat.

"Just--stop moving, please! I'll go get Urianger."

Aden rolled over, blinking bleary eyed at the sight of Minfilia standing from the twins' side and rushing to the stairs, a ring of flowers in pastel riot affixed to her hair. Alisaie met his gaze and huffed, crossing her arms. "What..?"

"The fair folk paid us a visit last night," she spat. Aden pushed himself to his feet, back popping hideously and protesting the night on the floor. The change in angle put in full view the work of the fae: Alphinaud and Alisaie's hair had been neatly plaited together while they slept back to back, a number of flowers woven in such that the white braid became a heavy vine. A harsh, surprised laugh tore itself out of Aden's throat before he had the presence of mind to suppress it, and Alphinaud sighed heavily while Alisaie glared. "Oh, it's easy for you to laugh, you and Minfilia got off easy. Just flowers in your hair."

Aden reached up to run his hand through his hair and shake them free, but it immediately snagged on a thin knot and a stem. Bringing his other hand up he felt around, identifying them by touch as best he could. They neglected to weave a lovely crown like Minfilia wore, merely tied the flowers in. A gentle tug failed to dislodge them, or a harsher one, and by that time Urianger and Thancred made their way upstairs. Thancred laughed heartily before they carefully hauled the twins upright and started picking apart the braid.

Minfilia watched them for a while, and Aden continued trying to remove the flowers to no avail. He grew so desperate he wandered off in search of a pair of scissors, but Minfilia caught up to him at the top of the stairs. "Is something the matter?"

Aden tugged on one of the flowers, trying to look annoyed. Considering all the things the fae  _ could  _ have done, it was an innocent joke, and he couldn't find it in himself to be genuinely upset.   


Yet.

"You don't like them? They suit you, especially that sunflower." She adjusted her flower crown, frowning. "Oh but I suppose people might take you less seriously with flowers in your hair. Sit down, I'll help you."

Aden sat down on a lower stair to give Minfilia easier access, and she spent the better part of two bells carefully untying flowers, quietly chatting about books.   


The twins took  _ three bells,  _ and settled merely for  _ separated  _ from one another, leaving many of the flowers intact out of sheer frustration with the process. They bickered the whole time, snapped when someone tugged too hard, and by the end seemed ready to choke the life out of the next pixie they crossed paths with.   


On their way out, Aden dawdled, and glanced over his shoulder at Lyhe Ghiah, at the familiar mountains, at the distant place he knew Seto and his people resided. “Thanks.”

* * *

  
  


Hades scowled from his invisible perch, watching the Scions thoughtlessly reject his entreaties. He expected little more for this first foray--closed minds, closed hearts. Lahabrea and Elidibus had done little to endear them. As expected, the shattered  _ thing _ walking around in a body  _ far _ too like his old friend’s--more like it than any those fragments had  _ ever _ worn--reacted with violence, reaching out his hands and crystalizing a blade of ice. The scowl drained from Hades' face, and he watched in stunned awe as that mockery of a soul charged forward, swinging the massive blade effortlessly through his illusion.

Such a tiny, tiny spark, but it was there, a guttering flame in utter darkness. He hadn’t merely manipulated temperature to achieve that, or drawn upon aspected aether in his surroundings. Aden--that was what this collective of shards called itself, wasn’t it?--had  _ Created _ that weapon, from a very distinctive  _ concept _ , drawing upon the wellspring of power within himself. Not so simple as shaping raw aether into the semblance of an object, nor bolstered by an outside source as the infamous blade of light. That sword was…  _ him _ . A part of his very essence made manifest in an act of will.

The man hefted it over his shoulder, frost settling in his hair and the trim beard along his chin, and turned back to the other Scions. Then looked straight up at him with those unnerving eyes, soul  _ boiling _ with seething anger, violent as the ocean in a storm.

Oh,  _ yes _ , that was more of his old friend than he’d seen in a  _ very _ long time. If it were enough to bring him to his side, to remember on an instinctual level their old camaraderie, then this just might be worth the setbacks. And if not, there was still the Exarch to consider…

He took Urianger’s advice to heart and made his first gesture of goodwill by revealing himself. Dangerous, but nothing worth having didn’t involve some risk. And uplifting those broken shards to finally fill the seat of the Fourteenth was worth  _ nearly _ any cost.

Nearly.

* * *

  
  


Aden left the others to their business, making his way to his rooms. He was sore from sleeping rough for several days, and starting to feel an unpleasant, numb  _ press _ in his back from wearing the dampeners non-stop the entire time. It was too early to rest, but too late to get any  _ real _ work done. He all but  _ marched _ up the stairs in the Pendants, though, blade still braced across his shoulder.

_ Emet-Selch. _ The Ascian’s aether had given him an unpleasant synaesthetic feeling, like an itch inside his skull. He’d crossed blades with them enough that when they didn’t take pains to conceal it his blessing recognized their darkness for what it was, and absolutely  _ nothing _ primed him to fight so quickly.

Yet the Echo had been utterly, completely silent. Not for one  _ instant _ had that monster tendered them any sort of actionable threat.  _ Observation _ . A spy in the dark was so much worse than a gun aiming for his heart.

Aden made it to his rooms, found them blessedly empty, and dismissed the blade, leaning back against the door with a weighty sigh. He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing for the brief peace he’d had that morning, half his companions fussing over the other half to undo the mischief of the fae. It’d been oddly domestic, and he found he rather liked seeing them like that.

He opened his eyes again on his comfortably appointed rooms and examined them for things  _ other _ than intruders this time. The basket on the table caught his attention immediately, and he made his way over, removing his gauntlets as he went. With one hand freed he picked up the note, scrutinizing it in an attempt to decide if he recognized the handwriting, and glanced down at the contents of the basket. He read the note again, then looked back at the basket.

“From the Exarch, is it?” Aden’s ears flicked and he stifled a sound of exasperation as he felt Ardbert appear over his shoulder. “At least he's keeping you well-fed.”

Aden didn’t look at the shade, instead reaching down and picking up one of the sandwiches tucked neatly into the basket. He slid the bread apart, examining the contents, and then replaced it, the tip of his tail curling in curiosity. He followed suit with the next one, and the next, tail twitching and ears canting forward until he finally made a soft, amused noise, smiling in spite of himself. “One of the twins must’ve told him…”

“What is it?”

“Notice anything unusual?” Aden picked one out and took a bite while Ardbert deliberated. Thankfully the shade didn’t know him well enough to comment on  _ that _ .

The shade leaned over the table, examining them. “There’s no… meat on any of them?” Ardbert looked up at him uncertainly, one brow raising. Aden just smiled. “That’s not… right. Do you not…?”

“I do. Just given a choice, I tend not to. I told you where I’m from,” Aden said, leaning against the table with his hip rather than sitting down, “but I didn’t get to grow up there. Where I was raised, when I was raised there, you had to be real careful about what kind of lives you took and how. Slaughtering animals wasn’t something you did lightly, but crops you’d grown yourself or traded for, that you were likely to get away with. And you could forage more reliably than you could hunt.”

“Huh.” The shade straightened, regarding him curiously. “I’d expect you to be the opposite once you got away.”

Aden shrugged with one shoulder. “I never resented it. But I can tell you whoever made these  _ thought _ about what they were doing instead of slapping them together like something was missing.” He looked down at the portion in his hand, considering it. “It’s not something I advertise, though. So someone must’ve told him.”

Ardbert scoffed. “With that mirror of his, he can watch your every move, you know. Doesn’t need to ask when he can look in on you at meal time. He'll probably think you're talking to yourself.”

Aden’s tail uncurled and his ears shifted, instinctively scanning the room for observation. Not that he’d be able to tell… perhaps, if it had a distinctive aether signature, and it happened often enough, but not yet. And not if it were subtle as many of the Exarch’s more exotic magics seemed. “Great,” he muttered, “then I’ve got to worry about  _ two _ people spying on me.”

“Judging by his people's faith in him, he seems to be a decent sort.” The shade shrugged with one shoulder, and Aden narrowed his eyes at the familiar gesture. “But so much about him remains shrouded in mystery. Like what was he doing back in my day? There was no such person when I was around.” A soft, curious sound from Aden answered Ardbert, and he noticed the spear he’d lost at Laxan Loft set aside in a corner.  _ Shrouded in mystery _ was putting it lightly. “Not that it matters. It's Emet-Selch we should be concerned about. When our world was about to be consumed by Light, the Ascian in white appeared before us. He said that the only way for us to live on was to bring about the Rejoining.” The shade made no sound as he moved, but Aden felt that strange bond between them shift as Ardbert crossed to the closed window. “Desperate as we were, we heeded his words, not realizing that the Flood was of the Ascians' own making. They cannot be trusted. None of them. But Emet-Selch had one thing right: one should not fight blindly. That's what we did. And it cost us everything we held dear.”

“Something’s off about him.” It looked like someone had mended the spear, taking the very slight bow out of the shaft from his fight against the first Lightwarden, and polished a scuff out of it. “He’s… different.”

“Oh,  _ gods _ , don’t tell me you’re buying into his offer.”

Aden’s ears shifted in the shade’s direction, but he didn’t look at him. “No. It makes him more dangerous, whatever it is. Less predictable until we figure it out.”

“We?” He finally looked back, found the shade staring at him with arms crossed, leaning back slightly and regarding him skeptically. “Since when did we move on from  _ fuck off spectre _ ?”

“You know when,” Aden answered, and realizing he had a bit of sandwich left in his hand ate it to avoid the pressure to say something uncomfortable.

“...You mean Seto?” Ardbert looked surprised, arms still crossed, and then his face softened, looking down. “Well, that's... Aye. I suppose you're right.”

It wasn’t how he expected to pass his evening, but it was strangely good. This easy peace felt more right than his earlier anger at the shade.

* * *

Minfilia stood quietly to the side, hands behind her back, while Urianger delivered a report of everything that had transpired in Il Mheg and their encounter with the Ascian outside. With her in the room they couldn’t speak frankly, and it seemed  _ odd _ to see her without Thancred, but she stood with a sense of some anxious purpose, as if she knew this was where she needed to be. Once he’d finished and the Exarch asked all the questions he desired, Urianger turned to Minfilia. “Minfilia, thou art ready to speak thy piece?”

“Um, yes.” She fidgeted a little more with whatever she held behind her back, and took three very deliberate steps forward to stand in front of the Exarch. Looking up at him, she ducked her head anxiously, then pulled a small bouquet of flowers from behind her back, offering it to him. “I wanted to thank you for sending everyone to rescue me.”

It took an effort of will to keep his ears in place beneath his hood, but he allowed her a grateful smile and reached to take them with his spoken hand. “It was the will of all our people that you be safe. If you must offer thanks, look to the city.” She lowered her gaze slightly, and he quickly added, “But I graciously accept your gift in the spirit it is given. Did you acquire these in Il Mheg?”

“Yes!” She grinned mischievously, a look he’d never seen in his brief interactions with the young lady, and when she looked up very nearly made eye contact. “Pixies visited us last night, and they plaited Alphinaud and Alisaie’s hair together, and gave me this,” she reached up to adjust the crown of flowers in her own hair, still vibrant and beautiful as if they yet sat rooted in the ground. “I had to help Aden get the flowers out of his hair, that’s where those came from.”

The Exarch very carefully maintained his smile, looking down at the bouquet in his hand once more. Red poppies seemed a particularly macabre but poignant choice. Chamomile, strange, but the little white flowers made sense when he looked on them. A reminder. He knew immediately this was Feo Ul’s work, and he wondered just how much they’d divined of the specifics of his relationship to the Warrior of Light. A sunflower sat at the center, nearly the size of his closed fist, and he wondered at that. It didn’t fit the message--but he imagined it tucked into Aden’s hair, how the petals matched the strange golden highlights almost perfectly. It was a common flower, a  _ working _ flower, and it suited him. Therein lay the meaning.

They were  _ encouraging _ his madness, the folly that would lead him to cause Aden more pain.

“Is everything alright?”

“Of course,” he answered readily. “I was merely struck by the mental image of our mutual friend waking to a head full of flowers.”

Minfilia giggled, putting her hands to her mouth and leaning forward slightly. “It was rather amusing! But they suited him. You should have seen it!”

Amusing wasn’t the word he’d use, but he didn’t challenge her. She was young, and deserved every fleeting moment of mirth she snatched from the jaws of fate.   
  


* * *

His feet led him back to the watchtower, sunflower in hand, eager to resume their nightly chats. For Aden’s sake, he told himself. He needed the man to feel comfortable here, to feel safe. The Exarch stood there for nearly two bells, watching the city below go to sleep, treacherous, hopeful heart sinking into melancholy. He was an idiot. A lovesick fool. Of course he wouldn’t always be here. Tonight, of all nights, he wouldn’t be here. Surely he had other things to attend to, other things to distract him. For one dark little moment he was tempted to focus his will through the Tower, reach out in its dim awareness and pick that bright spot out of the Crystarium’s people--the city lay in close enough proximity, and enough material from within the Tower pervaded it that it was within his abilities. 

He’d already invaded Aden’s privacy enough, and fed his selfish heart beyond wisdom. It was foolish to think any of this was for  _ Aden _ alone. Perhaps, yes, because his heart wanted only for his love to thrive and be well. But it was for him, too. And it was cruel to seek this. To offer more than sanctuary. The show of power had been wise; the open hand was the mistake.

He took in a sharp, harsh breath.  _ Gods above _ , but that was a horrible,  _ true _ thing to think, counter to all that he was now, and perhaps all he had ever been. Counter to the advice by which he had lived his life for a hundred years. Clutching the sunflower tightly, he turned to go.

Aden stood by the stairs, arms crossed, watching him. The man’s ears flicked forward, and his tail curled in amusement. “Where’d you get the sandwiches?”

“I--I made them,” he blurted, caught utterly off guard. For a moment he scarce believed his eyes. How had Aden ascended the stairs quietly? He wore the new armor he’d acquired in Il Mheg, which the Exarch had seen in his scrying. In person it was  _ far _ more generous to Aden’s already impressive figure, emphasizing the idyllic V of his torso and the breadth of his shoulders with the laced leather. The cut of the leggings was…  _ generous _ as well, in a way he hadn’t noticed while watching the fight. He considered himself fortunate he’d never seen Aden in anything like this when he was younger and everything still  _ worked _ . It would’ve been an entirely new and novel sort of hell. Now it merely frustrated and distracted him, something he was getting used to.

Aden made a soft, curious sound in acknowledgement. “Did you have my spear fixed?”

“I did.” That was utilitarian enough. He gathered himself, tamping down on the singing of his treacherous heart.

The man nodded, tail uncurling and curling again. He crossed the platform, approaching his usual spot. “And the flowers?"   


"Ah--" For a moment he thought Aden meant the ones from Il Mheg, then he remembered his first gift. Something to help Aden feel at home. He turned as Aden reached his side and stopped nearly shoulder to shoulder. “I was… made aware of your work as a naturalist. My hope was to help you find your ease here.”

Aden didn’t turn to look at him, rather pointedly surveying the city. “Did Minfilia tell you where she got those?”

“She did, yes.” He lifted the flower, keenly aware of how this must look and embarrassed. But it felt right to have it in his hand. The others were fragile, delicate things, but the sunflower was sturdy enough. A little of the light Aden had always been in his life on hand. Now he wasn’t sure what he’d meant to do with it, only that he wanted to have it with him until the enchantments on it faded.

“You’ve done a fine job,” Aden said softly. Only then did he turn his head, making relatively accurate eye contact in spite of the Exarch’s hood. He smiled, a tiny thing, barely curling his lips.  _ Oh _ , it reached his mismatched eyes, the corners crinkling slightly. That was… all he’d wanted, in a hundred years. And he had it already, their work only half done. “Where did the flowers come from?”

They stood there for a long time, and talked about everything from sandwiches (he’d made all the right choices, and internally sighed in relief) to the sunken kingdom of Voeburt, and the Ascian problem that now plagued them. “I’ve no doubt you can defend yourself from him,” was some of the highest praise Aden could possibly pay someone, “but don’t do it alone, if you can help it.”

“Avoiding provocation until we’ve learned what we desire, and in a time and place of our choosing, would seem the wisest course of action.”

“Agreed.” Aden’s tail lashed eagerly, as if already prepared for the fight. “Think you’re game?”

The Exarch gave him a little bow, smiling. “I would be honored to fight by your side again when the time comes.”

“I’d like that. Very much.”

His heart sang at Aden’s words, at the fact that the man paid him undivided attention as he said that, unguarded expression in face and ears and tail.  _ Authenticity _ . A great gift from so private a man.

And just this once he permitted himself selfish indulgence, and cursed not his treacherous heart. He could not in this moment. Aden’s faith in him made him weak. Just as Aden’s faith in him had made him strong, many years ago.

* * *

  
  


The Exarch bade them wait a while, take their rest, while he assessed their next move--and to see if the Ascian made one while they sat idle. Aden wanted to venture out into Lakeland and take his time exploring, but he dared not leave the city with that dark threat looming over them. He had a feeling. A  _ hunch _ . One he didn’t like, and one that made him reluctant to stray far from the Tower. From the Exarch. He’d been truthful in his words some nights ago at the watchtower, that he believed the man could defend himself handily--but  _ killing _ an Ascian was a different matter. And Aden  _ absolutely _ meant to kill it.

So he busied himself as best he could, offering a spare set of hands at the Horotorium to pass his mornings. They put him to grunt work, uncertain of his skills, but he was happy to get his hands dirty in a different way from usual and support their vital work. Soil came out so much easier than blood. He took midday meals with the Scions in a private room off the Wandering Stairs--to keep in touch, to keep abreast of each other’s work, and… for the company, as it had been a long time since most of them had seen him or one another until recently. Afternoons he spent at the rookery. Aden didn’t know a godsdamned thing about amaro, but he knew a  _ hell _ of a lot about chocobos. It was a familiar environment, the rhythm of the work soothing, and the zun content by turns to teach and to let him work in silence. He took his evening meals privately, in his rooms, and typically spent the time conversing with Ardbert since they’d reached their understanding. Afterwards he whiled away time in the Cabinet of Curiosity, or in Thiuna’s shop if she needed a hand, until the thing he looked forward to most.

It’d been so long since he had  _ routine _ , and needed to fill time without being at someone’s beck and call, that even with his hours occupied Aden sometimes found himself idle and unsure what to do, or improperly distracted by his work. It wore on him as the days went on, these moments with nothing to occupy his mind but his own darkness. He withdrew, unwilling to face the well meaning concern of those around him, and returned to the silent, pliant, uncertain way he’d been in his youth. Without a battle to win, he had no idea who to be any longer. He’d excised all those parts of himself.

It was worst with the Scions. They all fell so neatly together, and he… didn’t. At the end of the sennight he arrived for midday meal, quietly said his hellos, and sat down, hoping that if he avoided eye contact they’d talk around him. It worked, and he listened to Alisaie animatedly tell Minfilia the story of raiding the Red Kojin’s vault.

Aden glanced up from his plate around the table, caught Urianger and Alphinaud conversing in hushed tones over some arcane matter in a discipline he didn’t understand. Thancred leaned back from the table, far enough out of Minfilia’s line of vision that she wouldn’t see him watching her reactions to Alisaie’s story. It reminded him of Il Mheg, seeing them all so…  _ normal _ . He liked it still, and he hated it in equal measure. It reminded him of everything he no longer possessed.

For him their strained professional relationship was still near; for them time and knowledge of his impending death had worn down all the sharp edges of their relationship--and of their memory of him, of the anger he’d always carried and finally come to terms with expressing thanks to Fray. It bothered him, that they’d gladly sent him into what  _ could _ be his doom a hundred times, and only now when faced with evidence of his mortality did they care.

But what would they do without their Weapon of Light, damaged as it was? He couldn’t tell them he wasn’t sure he  _ wanted _ to forestall his own doom, but for the devastation accompanying it. He wouldn’t remind them of who he’d become, either. They seemed keener, more tightly knit despite their absence from each other’s company. He remained outside of that.

He’d made a bargain. And it was the only way to be sure everyone made it out alive. What happened to him on the way was of little consequence, as there was so little of him left he could claim was a  _ person _ . So long as enough of him lived to fight.

Aden stood, heedless of the fact that everyone stared, and left wordlessly, meal unfinished.

He retreated to the rookery for a while, doing monotonous physical labor to ease his troubled mind into some semblance of normalcy. It just gave him more room to think on all the things that made that cold, heavy stone burn so strongly he might as well have frostbite on his insides.   


That evening, when he returned to his rooms and the shade found cold, contemplative silence and asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Aden said only, “No,” and nothing else.

A note from Thiuna arrived, and as soon as he finished his meal--or enough of it to not notice how much of lunch he’d skipped--he went to her workshop in hopes of finally finding a genuine distraction. The materials needed for the barding had arrived, and she deferred to his expertise on repairing tack. Saddling an amaro wasn’t that different from saddling a chocobo, and  _ this _ , of all things, he had  _ years _ of experience with. He’d spent many long hours helping Nadine do just this growing up, so while his hands found the work familiar the delicate care such an old and worn piece in an unfamiliar style required kept his mind busy. Aden dove into it with abandon, and he barely noticed when Thiuna turned the lamps on, or when she retired for the night and took Noddy with her. The barding told a story, one he could help preserve, and he poured himself into someone else’s emotions since he couldn’t feel his own.

That was the whole point of being here, of helping her. He knew exactly how important these things were, in the weight of a ring he no longer wore and never could again. But these things were still  _ here _ . He worked small miracles, ones that mattered--beautiful ones like restoring the night sky, to help ensure these people didn’t suffer like he had.

Aden paused, hands shaking, at the memory that conjured, of the monster who had taken that physical connection to his lost love and eventually the last of his humanity from him. He could help these people not need to lock up all the best parts of themselves, to not be scoured down to their bloody, savage core and revealed for who they truly were under the trappings of society. To not need become an unfeeling, bloodthirsty  _ beast  _ for sake of survival.   


“Ah, here you are.” Aden’s head jerked up at that voice, burned into his memory by aetheric force. “My apologies, I do not mean to intrude, but you were not--”

“It’s fine,” Aden said, clenching his hands into fists to still them. No one made that cold, heavy stone burn more than the Exarch, a man he felt he  _ should _ be friends with. He was kind, and clever, intelligent, and strong enough that Aden didn’t fear losing him, and carried a burden so like his own in his mad quest to save this realm. And there was a melancholy to him, too, heavy with loss and grief behind all the hopeful brilliance he exuded. “I lost track of time.” He hadn’t expected the man to come looking for him--but why shouldn’t he? He did and said all the right things. Like he knew Aden. And more than anything, he wanted to be  _ understood _ without  _ explaining.  _ Someone to just… know, without him needing to name and number the things he’d done and lost along the way, and to accept who he’d had to become without pity or fear. “Just give me a moment and we can go.” This stranger knew him better than any of his allies.

“That won’t be necessary, if you are busy. Please do not think that you must attend me; I was the one who first intruded upon your solitude.” The Exarch stopped at a polite distance, hood dipping to regard the saddle on the workbench. “Might I ask what has you so occupied?”

A voice so like his own whispered danger, and that fine edge of dark power pressed down,  _ hard _ , as if struggling to keep the stone in place. “Zun barding,” Aden answered. “I’ve been doing restoration work for the lady who owns this stall, and they brought this in.”

“Restoration work,” the Exarch repeated, smiling softly and shifted his staff to his other hand. “So many of our artisans engage in work to sustain our people physically, it pleases me to know someone is working to sustain their hearts and their histories. Thank you.”

Aden beckoned him over, and resumed his work as the Exarch drew near, moving a little more slowly so the man could follow his hands. “That’s exactly why I’m doing it. You can kit someone out in finest armor, fill their belly, but they’ll still die, inside if not out, without these things.” He paused once more, hands steady but unable to move for just a moment.

“Arguably worse,” the Exarch said gravely, “to die a slow death of loss of history, loss of ties to one’s past and one’s self.”

That fine edge of dark power pushed so hard it  _ hurt _ . “I should stop before I go cross-eyed,” Aden said. He put his tools away and grabbed the armored jacket slung over the end of the workbench, tossing it over his shoulder. This understanding was too sudden,  _ too  _ deep, even though he’d known it would be there. And he needed it, but he’d locked away the ability to accept it from anyone. Traded it for the strength to endure. “Do you know much about the zun?”

The broken mimicry of Krile’s power worked, for once, told him the Exarch  _ knew _ he grasped for a distraction--and there was an edge of tension there, something he couldn’t quite make out. But it mattered little, because the man provided the distraction, and by the time they reached the watchtower he felt…  _ better _ . Not good, but better. That pleasant voice cut through the dark clutter in his mind, and unlike working on the saddle, let him relax.


	12. The Burden of Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y'shtola sees many things. She struggles with what she does and does not see in Aden, and what she does and does not say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, long overdue! You can yell at me on twitter @AStormcalled. Next chapter will have some really juicy stuff, and come much faster.

_ Though I suspect you will seek me out when you grow tired of making the same mistakes. _

"Is aught amiss?"

Aden responded with a soft, curious noise, registering the voice before he processed the words. With a start he realized the others were gone, leaving him staring into empty space alone with their summoner in the Ocular. He opened his mouth to say  _ no _ , then closed it, eyes focusing sharply on the Exarch. The Echo still ran in overdrive from their conversation with the Ascian, a sharp headache prickling behind his eyes and an ache in his chest. The Exarch asked his question honestly. 

"There's something between the lines of what Emet-Selch said." He wasn't sure he could say that to the others. "He wasn't speaking  _ to  _ us. It was like he was speaking to something  _ behind  _ us, or over us, coded for it to understand but not for us."

The Exarch frowned thoughtfully at that, inclining his head. "I will give this some thought, but for the moment let us focus on the tasks at hand. "

Aden nodded, and turned to go, boots clicking softly against the crystal floor. Then he paused, half turned back. "You're the last person I should say this to, but be careful out there."

The Exarch's head shifted up, lips parting in a moment of unguarded surprise. Then he ducked his head, cowl shifting very slightly with the motion. He smiled, that soft, mysterious expression he often wore that meant too many things to mean anything. "I assure you I will take no undue risks, provided you do your utmost to return safely as well."

There was that weird thing he couldn't put his finger on, something the Echo couldn't translate. Aden just nodded and said, "Deal," before he turned and continued out.  
  


* * *

Aden didn’t dare shift his weight, but his ears flicked in annoyance as he lifted his hands above his head and nodded for the others to follow suit, double checking that Emet-Selch did so. These people were just protecting themselves, misguided as they might be. He reminded himself for the hundredth time he was  _ no one _ here. It was easy to forget after so long resting in the Crystarium.

But the moment  _ sin eater _ left someone’s mouth Aden gave an exasperated sigh, ears flicking again and tail twitching out his nervous energy for him as Thancred tried to calm them. “All seven hells,” he muttered under his breath, and then louder, “We’re not godsdamned sin eaters. We’re looking--”

They cut him off, conferring amongst themselves, and bit back an order and an unkind word. He was nobody. He couldn’t yell at people and make an ass of himself and get his way and suffer no consequences. 

“Oh, for the love of…” Aden’s hand twitched at that voice, aching to hold his spear. He risked shifting his head just enough to look at Emet-Selch as the Ascian spoke. “I had hoped that by accompanying you, we might come to understand one another, but all I have come to understand is that you have a knack for inflaming the natives.”

“You think I like this any more than you do,” he said flatly.

Emet-Selch just frowned at him in that vaguely disapproving way, as if he’d expected more, and the shimmering nimbus of unlight that marked Ascian magics formed around him. “You've committed the cardinal sin of boring me. And so I retire to the shade. Good luck.”

Before he’d completed his retreat Aden’s ears pinned back, a growl rising up from deep in his chest. He snarled, wanted to  _ shout _ , because  _ surely _ the Ascian yet watched them, laughing about his little trick. Was that the game, then? Follow them around and get them killed by circumstance?

Another familiar voice drew his attention back towards their captors. Despite the fact that Y’shtola now stood before them Aden didn’t lower his guard or relax. Something was beyond wrong here. Urianger leaned slightly in his direction and murmured, “ 'Tis passing queer that Y'shtola should mistake us for the enemy, is it not?”

“That’s a word for it.” Aden had several less kind words for it ready, but he held his tongue. Urianger spoke for him, and Aden permitted it‐-he was far out of his depth here, if Y'shtola did not recognize them. Best to let those she'd seen more recently handle it.

Still, he carefully schooled his reaction when she named everyone but him, deliberately flicking his ears rather than letting them droop. As Urianger finished he chimed in, “I know they say the first thing you forget about a person is their voice, but c’mon, Y-- _ Matoya _ . Seems like it was just yesterday to me.”

Her expression changed, shifting through shock and delight to shame, her ears expressing a hundred different emotions, “It... It cannot be!”

“Master Matoya?”

“Lower your weapons.” She managed to compose herself after that, the voice of her follower seemingly shocking her out of her excited state. “Forgive us this hostile welcome.”

Aden lowered his hands, and took in a deep breath as everything settled into place around him. He should’ve kept a keen eye on Y’shtola as they finally left, but he slowed his gait, let Urianger and Thancred see to her company, and looked out instead at the towering trees from the relative safety of this large group. He felt… washed out, and strangely tired after his anger at Emet-Selch, his disappointment and hurt at Y’shtola’s failure to recognize him more than he expected. Even the verdant foliage and strange life around them couldn’t command his attention. For a moment Aden was--elsewhere. Where he wanted to be. With a stranger with whom he had no history and this sort of pain wasn’t possible.

“She didn’t recognize you.” His ears flicked in Minfilia ’s direction and he remembered himself, where he was. How he needed to act. “That must feel… awful.”

A short, sharp sound escaped him, too bitter for a laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“I… just imagined how I’d feel,” she said, voice still soft. Aden turned his head to look down at her as they walked, found her head bowed and one hand clasped to her chest in a gesture growing familiar. “Are you friends?”

Looking up at Y’shtola well ahead of them, he considered the question. He couldn't say it--to express it out loud would surely kill her. After the twins… friends was the wrong word. Their relationship was strained as it had been with all the Scions, everyone who'd fallen into the trap of his introspective silence and willingness to help (need to please, a voice so very like his own whispered), but Y'shtola… had seen some of the worst of him. Not like Alphinaud and Tataru, who had seen  _ everything, _ but Y'shtola knew the depth of his rage and his grieving and his struggle to heal in Ishgard. She'd carried herself differently around him since. Not pity, nor did she take it easy on him  _ at all _ . She still relied on him in the same ways. But it was… different. The words she chose, the care she took to include him in decisions. 

"Maybe," because they weren't, but they could have been. Were he still capable of such a thing. Y'shtola's scathing wit and serious mind suited. Yes, they could have been friends. 

And perhaps that was why it hurt, that she had not only failed to recognize him but mistaken him for a sin eater, to watch her tease Urianger and slap Thancred on the arm at his response. How easily they all fit together. What camaraderie they'd found while he was out dying a thousand small deaths of flesh and mind and spirit for them. 

Minfilia proved more fitting company in her own sullen silence. They were both outsiders here, but at least she had a chance. To make inroads where he had not. To not fall victim to the cruel isolation of her unique abilities. Perhaps… he could help her.

He looked down at the child walking by his side with her head bowed, gaze cast at her feet. Yes, he'd do that. For his old friend, and the girl who lived in her shadow. 

* * *

In private they said their hellos and shared their news and Aden glared daggers at Thancred and Y’shtola while Minfilia shrank in place, trying to make herself as small as possible as if it would stop people from talking about her. After the girl fled he merely said to Y’shtola, “What the hells was that,” and left.

He didn’t want to be indoors anyroad. 

So when Minfilia’s soft, uncertain voice asked, “Would it be all right if I joined you?” and Runar gave his approval, Aden gestured for her to move closer. He noted how the girl subtly shifted towards him, so he stood at her right and slightly behind her, arms crossed. He tried very hard not to project, but-- 

Something in Aden’s chest ached at that, and he turned his mind from it as best he could, refocusing on Runar’s lecture. He engaged in some subtle shifts of his own, encouraging Minfilia to take the lead in asking questions. As such rather than the quiet, sullen girl becoming his pale shadow, he became hers instead.

She went first for the purification, and when Aden bowed his head for Runar to sprinkle him with water it clung to his ears in droplets--which he flicked, and Minilifia shouted a surprised laugh. Aden straightened up, wiggling his ears at her again, and Minfilia hid her laugh behind a hand this time--but it was there.

So when she volunteered her services to retrieve the heartstone, bold and timid all at once before she remembered herself in a moment of doubt, Aden just put a hand on her shoulder like he had in Pla Enni and steered her towards the hidden entrance to the village. “Thancred doesn’t need to know.”

* * *

As Runar’s voice faded Aden fell into silent contemplation. Here he was again, faced with the story of Ardbert as some sort of guide or ferryman. It was their fate, perhaps. To shepherd the lost. He leaned back against the cave wall, hands behind his back just over his tail and fingers propping him only ilms from it. But who guided  _ them _ ? When did they find  _ their _ rest? That Ardbert lingered and his companions who had received the Blessing yet walked the land with some modicum of their old selves, mindless as they were…. Aden looked up at the dark stone overhead, as if that blackness might harbor some secret answer yet untouched by Light.

The next day Aden forgot himself, tail lashing wildly and ears perked, a grin splitting his face as the Blessed's rivals panicked over bees. "Well," Thancred commented as they waited for the full effect, "someone seems quite pleased."

Aden gave a soft huff of a laugh, though his shoulders shook. "Reminded me of someone," he answered. "An old…" he could say that word, couldn't he? For the lost. For a name written on that stone, "friend. It's the sort of thing we would've gotten up to."

Thancred's expression softened, something of assessment in it, and Aden couldn't quite figure out the look. Y'shtola and Thancred fell into an easy, familiar banter while he stiffened, falling out of his mirthful posture into neutral readiness, hyperaware of the scrutiny. He couldn't know their minds, what they saw, what they thought, and he had to remain vigilant lest… 

* * *

Y’shtola remained focused on their task as they stole into the Children’s inner sanctum, only aware in the vaguest sense that Aden was  _ upset _ . It was why she bade him look over the murals--that and his Echo might offer him some insight, or the keen and analytical mind he hid behind his quiet manner and martial prowess might pick up on some vital detail hidden therein. Something to occupy him, something to reiterate she valued him for more than his skill at killing.

The monument proved far too large to take a rubbing, so she transcribed the script, one hand trailing over the carving and the other scribbling in a notebook. She would remember it, of course, but her personal recollection would do little to serve Urianger in assisting her. It took some time, but with Aden in the room she comfortably focused on her work, unconcerned about any interruptions. When she stood and announced, “I have everything I need,” she found him standing before one of the murals stock-still, ears canted as if listening to something. When she examined the room she sensed no other presence. The stark colors and solidity of his presence in her aethersight washed slightly pale, but she saw plainly the attentive twitch to the tip of his tail, the flex of his hand at his side, fingers curling as if they held something. For an instant aether swirled beneath his palm, coalescing, chasing a linear shape. Y’shtola looked up, the reactive paints of the mural above showing the faded outline of a spearman, perhaps triumphant or perhaps mid-throw, a number of other figures in attendance. She looked back down at Aden, frowning slightly. He wasn’t in an Echo vision, or he would have collapsed by now. And yet his attention fixated so as to seem trancelike, and his ears still canted, listening.

She raised her voice slightly. “Is something the matter?” Aden’s shoulder jerked, his ears snapped back, and his hand closed into a fist, the aether beneath it dispersing. “We should go. The others are waiting.”

“Right.” He turned to her as if nothing strange had happened, and Y’shtola narrowed her eyes briefly, scrutinizing his aether. The light had not yet washed out details, but something seemed…  _ strained _ about him, aside from the obvious. It bothered her all the way back, put her mind to thinking about how her vision functioned in an attempt to puzzle it out, when she wasn’t occupied with the translation.

She had  _ questions _ for Urianger.

* * *

Aden found himself leaned against a log next to Runar’s cookfire for a good long while. The man proved amicable, but Aden wasn’t in a mood to talk--and after a few attempts Runar got the hint, and seemed content with silence in the way of his folks that Aden found so endearing. No, Aden just shifted enough to stare up into the boughs woven overhead, the massive trees providing cover from the endless light and casting the pastel riot into soothing shades. It made lovely stained glass out of that bright horror, a chapel of diluted light over the sanctuary of darkness. There was poetry and philosophy in that, if he could study it a little longer, if he could grasp it in his own dark, weary mind. He hadn’t locked that up yet, hidden it beneath anything.

Perhaps when he returned to the Crystarium he would describe the scene as best he could and puzzle out the right words with--

“We will just have to start without them. Would you call Master Matoya and the others?”

Aden kipped up without a word, on his feet and moving in one quick, fluid motion. He reached Y’shtola’s private chambers and raised his hand to knock, but froze, ears canted forward at the  _ shouting _ from inside. “ The blessing may spare him the fate of becoming a Lightwarden... But you cannot be blind to the nascent corruption! He is not as he was in the Source.” He shifted slightly to look around, surreptitiously scanning to see if anyone else heard it or noticed his hesitance at the door. “Though I have no proof, I fear that the light which poured forth from the Wardens was not negated at all. I fear it was absorbed─that he has been suffused with their light.”

Oh, but he  _ had _ \--he could  _ tell _ her that, if she only asked. Not enough to feel it at all, but it’d integrated with his own aether. What else  _ could _ it have done? The only way to keep it in check, to prevent it from restarting the cycle, was to  _ hold _ it. And he was a bottomless vessel. They were but drops in an ocean thusfar.

But he could not  _ see _ himself in the way Y’shtola did. Aden glanced as his hand, still raised to knock at the door. Without her special sight he lacked such insights--and perhaps it was the insidious, stagnant nature of the light to feel  _ as nothing _ . Would he know if something went wrong? Would he be able to  _ tell _ until the moment it overwhelmed him?

_ “Help! Someone help!” _

Why give a damn  _ now _ what all this did to him? Too little, too late--they should've asked the fundamental questions beneath that argument years ago. He turned from the door more bitter and frustrated than concerned for his own wellbeing. 

* * *

Aden dove into the lake armor and all, and Y'shtola watched from the bank as his powerful aura muted in the water. In the early days with her aethersight yet newfound Aden appeared stark as he did in the flesh, and it provided her a reference point to learn to see the world anew. His every gesture shifted currents around him, she  _ saw _ the power of his words as they left his mouth--and to her surprise watched as his words gained power not unlike that in a great wyrm’s voice. But more than that as she had learned to  _ watch _ she rapidly realized how  _ broken _ their champion was by his experiences in their absence. How transparent he’d been to her, the red rage spilling out of his mouth on the rare occasion he spoke, the cold darkness waiting behind his eyes, watching. After his devastating battle with Nidhogg that blackness had oozed from his healing wounds, dripping to the ground and chasing his steps with frost visible only to her. His gaze had grown distant and dead, his silences no longer thoughtful brooding or annoyedly waiting his turn among those who unwisely ignored him, but the silence of… absence. Something was gone from him then, something she could not put name to as she had never seen it in the first place--she merely knew it by the absence of the thing. It had  _ disturbed _ her, but she was no stranger to loss, and so long as that darkness sustained him until he found the distance to heal she would not challenge it.

But the light…..

She watched as Aden entered the temples. Though she could not make out his motions she saw him dimly, through water, through swampy murk, through stone--so brilliant was his aura. There was a fullness about him,  _ more _ of him in her sight than before, his solidity taking on a strange quality. And it frightened her. Even the vaunted Warrior of Light must have his limits, a finite number of impossible miracles he could perform by strength of arms and will.

As he resurfaced the smear of aether currents resolved into Aden once more, his familiar features still washed pale. He shook water from his tail as he offered her his prize, and Y’shtola took it gratefully.

This had been the Crystal Exarch’s plan all along, she realized. And the man must  _ know _ not even  _ Aden  _ would survive this. And yet for the moment she saw no other way. They would complete their task in Rak’tika, and then she would return to the Crystarium with the other Scions. And then she would have  _ words _ with the man.

It occupied equal parts in her mind as the predicament of her people in Slitherbough, as the work before them as they met with the Viis and made their way into the temple. She employed Aden’s keen mind many more times to supplement her own distracted one--and each time he provided a solution she puffed up a bit,  _ proud _ that he proved himself bright as any Sharlayan born. He had done much and more in their time together to disavow her of certain prejudices, and she was forever grateful for the opportunity to grow beyond herself. Y’shtola finally came to the conclusion, running for her life at his side in the temple while he shone brilliant with excited enjoyment, that she could keep those things in no longer. With the way his war against the sin eaters affected him… she may not have another chance. So in the heart of danger Y’shtola resolved to speak with him in private at the earliest opportunity.

When she threw herself from a ledge after the antidote it was with a heart full of certainty, of confidence in the man she very much  _ wanted _ to call friend and colleague. She regretted that she would not  _ see _ her people restored to health, that she would not have  _ words _ with the Exarch, and that she would not have time to finally do the great work of mending ways with Aden. To make up for the great mistake of taking his silence at face value all these years, and her own silence at the insights her new vision gave her. But she had a chance, as darkness swallowed her, one dim, faint chance.

With a heart full of certainty and confidence in the man she very much  _ wanted _ to call friend and colleague, she took it.

* * *

“I prithee calm thyself, Aden.”  _ You are a distraction _ did not follow, but he heard it all the same. Aden ceased his pacing and wandered to the flet’s ledge, where he snatched up a fallen nut that vaguely resembled a beech and sat down, legs dangling off the precipitous edge. He worried at the smooth shell of the nut unconsciously, staring out at the wild tangle of limbs and leaves.

He couldn’t help but play the scene over in his mind, looking for a moment when action might have made a difference. But the distances were too far for a jump, no purchase to be had on the angle Y’shtola had taken--in short, nowhere to  _ go _ . He probably could have survived the fall.  _ Probably _ . But who knew how much energy he would’ve needed to dissipate and what it would’ve done to a likely unstable structure, or if there were another way out. No, too many variables, too many unknowns. He would only have made it  _ worse _ .

Aden played it over in his mind again regardless. It was too much like the Bloody Banquet, and his body tensed, that fine edge of dark power in him hovering near the surface, ready to surge forward when the pattern held true and the next one fell. He only spared a twitch of one ear for Thancred and Minfilia’s arrival, half-heartedly listening in on their conversation. 

The soft  _ pat-pat  _ of Minfilia’s gait curved around behind him and stopped at his side. After a moment of hesitation she dropped down next to him, carefully scooting to the edge then dangling her legs off. They sat there in silence while Thancred and Urianger’s conversation grew hushed, the comings and goings of Fanow a whisper. Finally, Minfilia said, “I’m sorry.”

A long, heavy breath escaped Aden, and with it went some of the weight of his contemplation. “Shit happens.” She leaned against his arm, careful of the fittings on his armor, staring out at the trees with him. “She knew what she was doing,” came out before he thought about the words, but he found he believed them. “All we can do now is make sure it wasn’t in vain.”

“Still,” she said, voice quiet and gaze downcast at his side, “it doesn’t seem fair. She cared so much for the Blessed, she should be here. And she was your--” she scrunched up her nose, looking for a word, “--sort-of friend. It must hurt.”

It didn’t. Just felt cold and numb, and he couldn’t explain that to her. “Don’t worry about me.” He forced a small smile. Nothing like this could hurt him ever again. Only bother him as he analyzed it over and over again, clinical and detached thanks to that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be. Nevermind that he  _ had _ written a new name on it in recent memory, or that the stone bore a dozen hairline fractures across the surface from dangerous freeze-thaw he meant to subject himself to again and again.

Minfilia frowned at that, and began to respond--only to be cut off immediately by Thancred calling, “Aden!”

He let Minfilia stand first so she had his shoulder to hold on to as she scooted back from the edge, and she still frowned down at him as she got her balance, lips pressed into a thin line and brow furrowed as if she meant to say something. Whatever it was she kept it to herself, so Aden joined Urianger and Thancred at Runar’s bedside. The ronso was awake and watching him expectantly as he rounded the hammock. “We thought it best he hear the story from you,” Thancred explained, “since only you witnessed the entire sequence of events.”

“Right.” Aden clenched his hand around the not-quite-beech-nut and launched into as plain a description of the moments leading up to Y’shtola’s leap into the abyss as he could manage. He fought back a grimace at Runar’s predictable response--he knew this reaction all too well, and that fine edge of dark power inside him pushed gently against the cold, heavy stone to keep the memory in check. 

“Was there no other way? I...I cannot believe that she...that she…”

Aden looked away, ears pinned back. He didn’t want to hear this man say all the things that’d caught in his throat when--

“Forgive me for interrupting,”  _ there’s nothing to forgive _ , he thought, but didn’t say it as he turned to look at Almet descending the stairs to the flet, “but our scouts have apprehended an intruder.” Whatever else she said didn’t register as familiar, beautiful,  _ blessed _ anger chased up his insides like frost and replaced the empathy that threatened to shake that cold, heavy stone loose. Emet-Selch, who had last disappeared in an attempt to sow confusion regarding them with the Blessed, followed flanked by Cymet and Uimet. 

Frustration overwhelmed him, and Aden whinged the nut in his hand at Emet-Selch. He fully expected the ascian to dodge, but he didn’t, and it bounced squarely off the Garlean third-eye his preferred form bore. Emet-Selch gave a very slight sound of alarm and surprise, lifting a hand to his forehead to inspect for damage. “Just checking,” Aden announced, tail curling behind him in pleasure at his incredibly  _ petty _ victory. He looked over his shoulder at Thancred who scowled, and Minfilia who covered her mouth to hide either shock or a grin, and announced solemnly, “He’s real.”

“Rude  _ welcome _ aside, what trouble have you gotten yourselves into this time?”

Aden’s hand clenched at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking.  _ Don’t antagonize him _ , he reminded himself, imagining the words in the Exarch’s pleasant voice, their agreement to a shared plan of action. Oh, but he  _ wanted _ to, to demand why he gave a shit  _ now _ . Surely he knew, why else would he appear and feign ignorance? Aden repeated the story, kept his voice even and calm, and resisted the urge to bare his teeth and growl at, “My condolences.” Thancred all but did it for him--and that was as it should be. Aden was an outsider to their grief, as ever, only finding his own meaning in Y’shtola’s death where he expected Emet-Selch to take advantage.

Playing the scene over in his mind became an  _ escape _ , not an obsession. It gave him something to focus on other than the desire to unsling his spear and run Emet-Selch through then and there, and permit him not the opportunity to leverage Y’shtola’s sacrifice against those closest to her. He was alone here. He could step outside of their emotions, and think ahead, attempt to divine the ascian’s intent and plan.  _ So like the bloody banquet _ ; he’d been alone there, too, though he had not yet realized it, and certainly alone after. Had he opened his eyes in the face of truth then perhaps the winds of fate might not have bowled him over, and everyone--

_ The wind _ .

“You have something on your mind.” Aden had barely noticed Minfilia crossing to his side during the tense conversation between Thancred and Emet-Selch, and his ears swiveled to her first before he looked down at her. “What is it?”

Without heed for anyone else’s words he simply blurted out, “Flow.” Everyone went silent, and Aden’s fur stood on end as he felt the gaze of everyone on the flet upon him. “She cast flow.” He so rarely weighed in on matters arcane he hardly expected anyone to take him seriously, and he all but shook with frustrated anxiety--that he had not realized sooner, and that  _ they might dismiss him. _

“Pray recount to us again that which thou witnessed in the ruins, omitting not the slightest detail.”

Aden closed his eyes, and told the story a third time.

* * *

_ Whistle _ , the bastard had said, so  _ cheekily _ . Aden put the lantern down and rose again to his full height, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  _ Whistle _ . He had a better idea.

Birds scattered from their roosts in alarm and animals fled the outskirts of Fanow as the voice of a  _ predator _ shook the trees. The filthiest,  _ vilest _ insult one could muster in the tongue of dragons echoed from the boughs, and it rattled their bones and cowed their hearts. Aden followed it up with a whistle, as requested, but as if he were  _ calling a chocobo _ .

When Emet-Selch arrived, accompanied by the other Scions, he responded with a disappointed shake of his head. “Some things never change, nor matter how dearly you wish they might.” He offered no explanation, and Aden did not seek one, merely stood aside.

He watched Emet-Selch keenly while the ascian worked his strange magic,  _ felt _ it when his aether called out to the lifestream. The moment in which Y’shtola emerged the air was thick with an almost oppressive blanket of aether, as it had been the first time, and looked away as the spillage from the lifestream prickled at his senses and a dozen split-second images, all garbled nonsense, slipped through the Echo. Though he regained his bearings by the time the others rushed forward, Aden remained behind. Let them have their happy reunion. It was not his to claim.

“Well?” His ears flicked in annoyance at Emet-Selch’s voice as the ascian drew to his side--within arm’s reach, Aden noted. As if he did not understand or did not acknowledge the  _ danger _ of standing so close. “Will you not join them and greet your comrade? Surely this--” The ascian stopped with a curious hum, and he turned to regard Aden. Aden deliberately flicked his ears, and turned to meet the ascian’s gaze in defiance. He saw no malice in that golden gaze, only scrutiny, and perhaps--as the Echo told it--a flicker of familiar sympathy. “Indeed, some things never change, no matter how we might wish otherwise.” Before Aden had a chance to tender a response Emet-Selch straightened--as much as he ever did, and cleared his throat, looking towards the joyous gathering. “Is there aught you wish to say to me? A word of thanks, perhaps?”

Aden didn’t move from the ascian’s side, hands balled into fists, ready to take out his frustrations and confusion if anything untoward occurred--and Y’shtola’s sudden turn of address caught him entirely off guard. “You had better not have explored its depths without me.” 

With the Echo in overdrive as ever around an ascian, he caught her bizarre mix of  _ tentative _ / _ hopeful/playful _ and his ears pinned back and his tail lashed. This assault from all sides unmoored him, and he stammered foolishly, “I--I was… waiting for you, of course.”

Y’shtola clasped his shoulder and smiled at him, then made her way back with the others. Aden watched them go, uncertain what had just happened.

* * *

They agreed to take an ‘evening’ rest after the travails of the day, to provision and prepare before entering Qitana Ravel. After their shared meal with the Viis Aden disappeared, and Y’shtola excused herself citing a desire to rest early after her trying journey through the lifestream. Nothing could be further from the truth, her form full of an excited energy like never before--so strange compared to her first revival.

She found him on a platform high up, sitting at the edge, leaned against a column with his legs drawn up to his chest and his chin resting on his arms. Y’shtola did not bother to quiet her steps, knowing Aden would hear her no matter what she did, and indeed his ears flicked her direction in short order. He uncurled himself and stood, the aether currents around him sluggishly reflecting his movement. 

“Please.” She lifted a hand in a staying motion. “I wished to speak with you privately.”

Aden exhaled heavily and leaned against the column, still standing. Owing to his characteristic solidity in her aethervision she easily made out his features, and he looked  _ tired,  _ ears sitting low. “What,” he asked flatly.

Y’shtola drew within polite conversation distance and steeled herself. She had a chance--a  _ third _ chance now--and by the Twelve she meant to take it. “I wished to speak with you on what transpired within the Pyramid. When I flung myself from the ledge I did so in faith. I knew that you would do what must be done.”

For a moment he gazed at her blankly, then looked away with a one-shouldered shrug. “You don’t have to say anything. It needed doing.” 

Though her expression remained unflappable she winced internally, realizing what she’d said. “I apologize. I am… not very experienced at this. Let me start over.” Y’shtola took a deep breath and counted down as she exhaled, attempting to clear her mind. When she finished she felt her tail relaxed behind her, some of the giddy energy of her miraculous retrieval expended. “I am sorry that I mistook you for a sin eater. And that I was not there for you after your loss in Ishgard.”

Aden’s mismatched gaze snapped to hers, the slits of his eyes narrowed dangerously and his body coiling with tension that translated into a tightening of the aether currents that chased through him. She saw that darkness bloom across the vibrant colors of his form, a black and red swirl like clasped hands over his heart. He said nothing, so she tore her eyes from the stain on his aether and continued. “You were hurting in many ways, and unwell, and it seems to me in retrospect that I erred in not speaking up when I noticed. We have all come to rely upon you in ways which are perhaps… unfair. But I knew each time I asked you for your input on the ruins here that you would provide me the correct answer, perhaps more swiftly than I myself might divine it. I knew when I hurled myself from the ledge that you would not let me do so in vain, and I held  _ faith _ that you would puzzle out what I had done and devise a way to steal me once more from the clutches of death. Never have you done anything but rise to the occasion, not merely in your strength of arms but in the sharpness of your wit.”

His eyes remained narrowed, watching her like a predator watches a threat, his tail twitching out the tempo of his attention. “What is this?”

With a heavy sigh Y’shtola shook her head. It had been too much to hope this would be easy--you didn’t mend half a decade of inattention with a few words of praise. “We Scions were not particularly welcoming of you years ago, and we have only permitted the situation to fester despite the phenomenal lengths to which you regularly go to aid us. Now I seek to rectify it. If you will permit me, I would call you friend rather than merely comrade-at-arms.”

That black stain on his aether hardened, the red disappearing entirely. “Call me whatever you like.” Aden’s breath puffed with icy aether as he pushed off from the column, his voice rough with something restrained, and he brushed past her. The darkness trailed after him, ghostly tendrils nipping at swirls of ambient aether.

She did not turn to watch him go, but hung her head and muttered, “ _ Damn _ .”

* * *

The great misshapen beast of a lightwarden in Qitana Ravel slumped to the ground with Aden’s spear shoved through the roof of its central mouth, fire sputtering in its gullet. As the others retreated to a safe distance he jerked it free, a little of that plastery white ichor that passed for blood splattering across his face. The darkness came, and with it that rush of aether--he felt it settle into place, passion and summer warmth splashed across the face of that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be. Aden tilted his head back, bade the light vanish, and alongside the return of night swooped in a blustery wind shaking the trees, making music of their leaves. Thunder sounded in the distance, the long roll a promise against the starry night. Unlike the other lightwardens he’d defeated he felt strangely  _ energized _ , that warmth searing the surface of the stone even as the fine edge of dark power sought to tamp it down. A storm was coming, literal and figurative, and he the center of it.

Much as he might like to he could not deny that he  _ lived _ for those moments, and he reveled in his triumph and the promise of more. He’d free this world with as many beautiful miracles as it required, and perhaps race to a horrific end, but who said he couldn’t have  _ fun _ doing it.

* * *

When Emet-Selch appeared in their path Aden quickly snatched up a loose stone from the ground and flung it at him. It bounced off the ascian’s shoulder and he scoffed in disgust. “Do you intend to do that  _ every _ time?”

Aden ignored him, merely looked at the others and announced, “He’s real.” Minfilia hid a giggle behind her hands, and Y’shtola shot him a sly look. The others--well, he didn’t care what they thought, and the less said of the look Thancred gave him, the better.

* * *

Clouds raced across the starry sky to meet them on their return trek through the wood, lightning lashing their grey bellies, the air alight with aether unbound. The rain waited, a secret held until they found the shelter of Slitherbough. The tangle of trees overhead kept the worst out, but the leaves made a cacophonous sound in lashing wind and pounding rain. The Scions retreated to Master Matoya’s sanctum to wait out the worst of it, and waited in tense, hushed conversation.

“The eldest and most powerful of primals... Gods. If that were Hydaelyn's origin, then what would that make─” Thancred ceased drumming his fingers on the table, head leaned against his hand. “...No. No, I will not take the words of an Ascian on trust. It has to be a lie.”

“'Tis oft said truth is a matter of perspective.” Urianger inclined his head in Thancred’s direction from his seat close at hand. “Yet upon this matter, there can be but one truth. I only pray it is not his.”

Y’shtola paused in her pacing near the door, one hand at her cheek in thought. “Though recent events plainly warrant further discussion, I think it best that we wait until the others are present.”

The door opened and rapidly closed again, Minfilia pressing herself against it utterly soaked. She took a few squelching steps in, then reached down to wring out the hem of her dress. “He’s just standing out there in the rain, staring up. I didn’t want to go too far out of the trees, after what Urianger told me about the lightning.”

“Surely he will join us anon. Here,” Y’shtola ushered Minfilia towards a second door into her quarters. “Let us get you dried off.” But despite her reassurances she  _ worried _ privately. As did Thancred. As did Urianger.

Their Warrior of Light had always been a strange one, and none of them had ever paid enough mind to truly  _ know _ if something was wrong or not after Emet-Selch’s supposed revelation.

Because none would suffer that potential truth more greatly than he.


	13. Seek Salvation by Your Own Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You must find hands that can heal you of this wound_, Fray once told him. Perhaps he did not mean the hands of another--perhaps he meant the Warrior of Light's own, put to the right work. It seems everyone including the gods themselves want to interrupt the right work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can yell at me on twitter @AStormcalled or tumblr @dellebecque
> 
> Thank you as always to my amazing beta [smollander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smollander/pseuds/smollander)

Yet one more revelation awaited Y’shtola, and from the very man she meant to give down the road and finally divest of all his secrets--yet it was not the secret she meant to have. When they regrouped in the Exedra, said their greetings and relayed their news, the Exarch faltered. Y’shtola scowled as others startled and Alphinaud gently chastised, “Exarch, you mustn't push yourself.” 

Before he finished the second word Aden was at the Exarch’s side, a steadying hand gripping his elbow. Y’shtola stared at that point of contact, at how solid the _ both _ of them seemed in her vision side by side for comparison, despite nearly a quarter of the Exarch’s aether obscured or consumed by that of the Tower. The Exarch looked up at Aden--or as far up as he dared with that obscuring cowl--plainly startled, but a weak, unconscious smile curled his lips. She narrowed her eyes, watching for Aden’s response--found that he _ returned _ it, a little steadier. Aden’s hand lingered just a little too long, but not so long anyone else seemed to notice.

As Alphinaud’s remarks turned to the suggestion that they all rest Aden caught her staring, and by way of explanation Y’shtola said, “I thought to propose the very same. After your clash with the Warden, you deserve a chance to recuperate.”

Aden shrugged at her. “Sounds reasonable.” He still looked tired to her, the aether dancing across his form sluggish. “Let everybody get settled in and all that.”

So just as they’d said their hellos they said their good evenings, and Y’shtola slowly turned to go. As the others made their way off she turned back to watch, ears straining to catch conversation as two particularly solid swirls of color made their way side by side towards the doors of the Tower.

“I assure you, I am well enough now that I am returned. I do not require an escort.”

“I’m sure you don’t _ require _ much of anything. But what about company?”

Y’shtola crossed her arms, scowling. This situation was proving to be far more complicated than she’d realized. But how to extract Aden from it whole and hale before the damage was done?

* * *

Aden went no further than the doors of the Tower, and turned away before they shut--even if he believed they would reopen, he would not subject himself willingly to that visual. He lingered on the stairs just a moment, uncertain of what to do with himself--too energized for rest, too weary to seek out the hunters he’d been assisting in his spare time. It was late for the Hortorium, but Thiuna, perhaps….

He set off, and found her replacing her sign after taking it down to clean it. So as not to startle her off her ladder he waited until she finished to give a greeting. “Aden!” she all but shouted in reply, and Noddy bobbed in the air behind her. “You’re back! I wanted to thank you again for the sign, I’m getting lots of inquiries now that people know _ properly _ what we do. Nothing I can’t handle yet.” Her smile fell, turned a bit anxious on the way down. “Well, there is… one thing, if you’ve time.”

“I’ve got all evening,” Aden answered, unfastening his armored jacket as he spoke. “So far as I know.”

“Well, this is… different. If you _ really _ have time. It might… best to show you.” She leaned forward on her stall, fingers splayed against the wood. “The matter remains of impressing. upon Owell the true worth of restoration.” Thiuna retrieved a box from beneath the stall and carefully opened it facing herself, then turned it for Aden to see.

Ice skittered across that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be as he stared down Noah’s lute, snapped in half. Aden gripped the edge of the stall, leaning forward to look at it, ears canted towards Thiuna but all his attention on the chips in that beautiful inlay, the shattered fretwork and frayed strings. His fingers ached just _ looking _ at it, remembering strings under his fingers and fingers over his guiding him, laughing at a sour note. That voice so like his own shushed away a melody that reminded him of a moment of harmony with the Tower’s hum, of peaceful serenity.

Aden _ forced _ himself to look up at Thiuna, to fix all his attention on her story. “No matter how rowdy the patrons were… are you alright?”

“It’s been a long day,” he grit out. “But it’s fine. Please. Continue.”

She did, painting for him the image of her master filling the air with the lute's warm, healing tones, and his tragic demise in pursuit of song. The whole while Aden set his jaw, clenched his hands into fists, all but every muscle in his body tensed against the urge to look down at the lute. A curl of strange, dark jealousy pooled in his stomach at the thought of it in someone else's hands. Rage bloomed bright in his chest at the sight of it in such a state. By far it was the _ last _ reminder he'd expected to see of times long gone, even in this strange place surrounded by hints of memories. And that _ it had been broken-- _ His tail twitched with his desire to find whoever was responsible and _ slug _ them. _ These were not merely their own memories they destroyed. _

“I need your help to make this lute sing once more.”

Finally he gave in to that siren’s call and looked down at the smashed instrument resting in the box. The neck had snapped, several frets destroyed under the pressure necessary to that sort of damage, the inlay chipped away and the bowl split from neglect. “There isn’t enough of this left to fix.” And even if there were, he knew Thiuna yet lacked the skill to work with something like this, still learning woodworking--the bulk of it would fall to him.

“We _ have _ to.” Thiuna leaned across the stall, running her hands down the side of the box. “More than just this lute broke--and this is the only way to mend what was broken.”

Aden swallowed thickly, regarding the lute with building dread. “I can’t fix this, Thiuna.” He finally tore his eyes away and gazed up at her, half-pleading. “I’m still years away from being able to make an instrument, nevermind _ mend _ one. If I touched this thing and messed it up, Beatin would _ kill _ me.” He spoke truth--but knew as well that if he laid hands on the lute he would pursue its restoration at the expense of _ everything _ else. It was a truly impossible task, as at first and second glance it seemed the only serviceable parts were the head and the soundboard.

“_ Please _ .” She returned his expression with an edge of desperation in her voice, fingers tightening on the sides of the box. “You can’t _ possibly _ make it worse than it already is, so… it can’t hurt to try.”

She was right. Something inside him went a little sideways at that, that fine edge of dark power burning all his rage to fuel pressure on that cold, heavy stone inside him. Aden unclenched his hands and reached for the lute.

* * *

As soon as the doors to the Umbilicus closed behind him the Exarch leaned against them and slid down to the floor, folding himself up with his knees drawn up and his head buried against them. The place where Aden had grabbed his arm to steady him still felt warm, and he shivered as he drew on the Tower’s aether to circulate through his crystalline flesh, unable to maintain his own body heat otherwise. Though he had used glamours rather than face Vauthry personally, the trip had taken a greater toll than expected. He could not take such a risk again before….

It seemed clear now where the end would come. After so long it seemed unreal--that he would fulfill the final, most vital part of this grand plan. All the hopes and wishes of a people who would never be… 

The Exarch pushed himself to his feet, steadying himself against the wall. He lacked the energy to strategize but felt too driven to rest. He need only make it a little farther, and all of this would be over. Perhaps it was time to….

He needed not worry about disposing of some of the more sensitive arcane materials he kept hidden here, as the Tower would simply vanish on his demise. But some things he could not bear to see unmade, and he wondered how to anchor them in time as he drifted to a shelf and a chair on the far side of the room. The Exarch ran his fingers over the spines of a dozen worn paperbacks, covers faded and discolored with the alchemical preservatives that’d kept them together all these years. He smiled; in his youth leaving them for Aden to find might have been a good joke, a final prank for which he would never see vengeance. Better yet to leave them with the Scions, somehow. But that was beyond him, and he would not pain Aden with the revelation of who he had been many, _ many _ years ago. No, he would take that name with him into the Rift.

Each book and sheaf of papers on this particular shelf he pulled out and examined once more, considering them. And each one he decided provided too much information to such a keen mind as Aden’s, leaving him too many clues by which to divine the Exarch’s origins. At length he came to a small box tucked in behind the copy of _ Heavensward _, and his breath caught in his throat. Not once had he forgotten it, but he realized now he had the opportunity to return it.

He lifted the box from the shelf and opened it, carefully shook out a ring into his palm. The dark metal stood out against his skin, the engraved leaves and branches twining about the band still stark and lovely, and the diamond and sapphire seated side by side, nearly flush with the band, still glimmered bright. It had instantly become his most prized possession, his only _ truly _ prized possession, a symbol of the most intimate part of his long-lost friend--a part he had never been privy to. That troubled him to dwell on, though he had long ago mastered the jealousy he felt towards Aden’s deceased fiance. The young man the Exarch had once been had thought them close, but never once had Aden spoken on matters of the heart. Perhaps they had never been as close as he thought, and those moments of intimacy between them _ stolen _ out of Aden’s cultural ignorance.

The Exarch closed his hand around the ring and the metal dug into his flesh. _ Could _ he return it? Or would this too vanish? The ring of Aden’s time sat at the bottom of a lake in Rhalgr’s Reach, so perhaps instead he might leave some hint, some _ clue _ just in case. No, best not to leave the ring where Aden might find it, as he’d intended all these years.

Which meant he would leave nothing behind.

He collapsed heavily into the nearby chair, the ring clutched tightly in his hand. He had no right to this, _ any _ of this, just as he had no right to covet Aden’s attention. For what he had done and would continue to do to his dear friend, he had no right to leave any trace.

* * *

The Exarch did not leave his Tower, and Aden did not leave his work until the pale edge of morning shone on the horizon. Neither of them sought the other for many days, the Exarch attending to his affairs in preparation, Aden possessed by a need he could not name for he had traded it away on a frigid Coerthan morning years ago.

* * *

Only a handful of bells after leaving the workshop Aden growled in frustration as he dashed between groups of sin eaters and besieged guardsmen, Alphinaud and Alisaie close on his heels. Heavy rain ran into his drachenmaille and washed splatters of plastery white ichor away. Water slung in an arc from his spear with every slash and on the back end of every thrust. Each knot of eaters stood just far enough apart to rob him of the rhythm beat out by the Echo, making a janky mess of his song of violence. By the time they’d gathered the others and made their way to Ostall Imperative the song seared through his veins, and that fine edge of dark power swirled in his breast, hungry for _ challenge _.

Aden indulged. Something about the battle in Rak’tika had reawakened his bloodlust, and _ here _ he might find an opportunity to slake that thirst. He released the song unheard in a wave of aether, and Alphinaud and Alisaie fell into step--and by the look of alarm on her face, Y’shtola as well. To his knowledge she had not _ heard _ the song before, not in the way the twins did. Aden grinned, baring teeth. She wanted to be _ friends _? Let her hear, then, and know him. He couldn’t help but be disappointed when she didn’t move quite right, only reaching that surface level of connection. But it wasn’t her fault the Exarch had spoiled him for fighting alongside anyone else.

When eater reinforcements charged their position he met them with full fury, spear sheathed in aether such that the force of each slash and thrust echoed beyond his reach. None of them proved a satisfactory challenge, but they did not _ stop _, and he fell into the rhythm of combat long enough that he reached that meditative, calm center in which action and reaction flowed naturally.

The Echo buzzed a warning a split-second before Urianger’s shout carried over the din, “Have care. That is no ordinary eater.” Aden ripped his spear free to see a seraphic horror in white like unto that which had taken Tesleen bearing down upon them. Rather than wait he launched himself skyward, coming down on it spear first, but the thing met him with its shield. It cracked under the impact, white ichor oozing out--he had not previously considered the possibility but of _ course _ the weapons were part of their bodies. As he landed the Echo beat a warning, and Aden twisted away from a sword blow the instant his feet touched ground. Reinforcements swarmed in after the creature, and Aden did his best to garner their ire, that fine edge of dark power leaking out in the instants before he dove into Alphinaud’s barrier. Still they came, and the seraphic horror stood.

“Aden, buy me some time! Alphinaud─I'll need aether.”

“On it!” This newest wave seemed hellsbent on the wounded guardsmen, and Aden dove under another sword blow from the seraphic horror, mind whirling with possibilities. He could withstand _ any _ onslaught for a short amount of time, but how to draw them in without risking the seraphic horror’s wrath on any of the injured? The song yet rolled through him, burned in his veins, and perhaps--

Aden exhaled deliberately, the searing cold of that heavy stone where his heart should be suffusing his limbs as he relaxed his grip on that fine edge of dark power. It surged, hummed in time with the dragonsong in tinkling frost and an unnerving thrum. Beneath it, still _ barely _ tangible, he felt the Light. As he blocked another blow he released that too, gently, slowly, threaded it through the song--and shouted a single word of challenge.

They fell upon him in a maddened frenzy, the Echo’s warning beat a constant roll. There were too many to dodge and frost began to cake over his drachenmaille in layers, regrowing in the cracks left by each blow. He focused his attention on the seraphic horror, letting blow upon blow fall from the lesser eaters and trusting in that dark power. As Alisaie’s aether surged it seemed to take note, vacant stare fixating upon her. Aden used the shell of one of the lesser eaters as a launching point, stepping up onto its head to jump at the seraphic horror. The eater’s chitinous exterior shattered under the force, and Aden’s spear struck true, piercing one wing. At such close range the strength of the blow drove it to the ground, and ice shot along the surface of the spear, freezing it in place. The seraph tried to roll into him, sword flailing as he pinned it, but Aden dodged the wild swing and held out his hand, the sword of glacial ice coalescing into it. He kicked the the creature viciously, throwing it back into place, and leapt across to drive the sword through the other wing and into the ground. He backpedaled, swallowed by the swarm of eaters once more as the seraph thrashed in place, wings beginning to tear free.

At Alisaie’s warning shout he let that dark power sheathe his form as it had in his fight with Titania, the explosion of her magic eating at the edge of darkness and frost as he stood in the thick of things. When it cleared the lesser eaters had collapsed to the ground, and the seraph stilled. They began to dissipate around him, and Aden retrieved his spear, the frost across his armor crackling as pelting rain melted through.

Then the _ true _ work began.

* * *

They fought across Lakeland for _ bells _, each of the Scions fit to drop by the time the last sin eaters fell. Alisaie sat as the others wearily drifted off to do what they may. Aden seemed fully alert, only superficially wounded largely in thanks to that strange power she had now twice seen him wield. He too left her side, but with purpose. She waited there, catching her breath after channeling so much borrowed aether, until finally she could stand idleness no more. She passed the others tending to wounded with what arts they possessed, spotted Lyna giving orders to a small group of surviving soldiers--far too small, she thought in frustration.

Finally she found Aden in the shadow of one of the buildings, kneeling beside a prone woman in Lakeland’s colors. Blood speckled her lips, and a hideous wound marred her abdomen, dark blood sluggishly oozing out. Yet her hand clasped his, and her eyes rolled to tell she yet lived.

“....I’ll tell her,” Aden’s voice answered, soft, sure.

“You won’t--_ hn _\--forget?”

“I’m gonna write it down.” He shifted slightly, grip tightening on her hand. “She’ll know.”

“...stars,” she murmured. “Blessed night… I can see them….”

Aden sat there until the rise and fall of her chest stilled, her head lolled to the side. He carefully placed her hand over her chest, and immediately unlatched a single clasp on his breastplate, pulling out a battered notebook and a nib of charcoal to write down the woman’s last message as promised.

“Aden,” Alisaie called softly. 

“Yeah?” He didn’t look up, finishing the message.

_ Gods _ she was tired to her very bones, but something in her did not want to see Aden doing this dreadful work. By all accounts he’d been… strange of late. But how to put him off of it? “I’ll take over here,” she offered. “Will you see if Lyna requires anything?”

He shifted in place to look up at her, mismatched gaze assessing, and seemed to make some decision. “Yeah.” He offered her the notebook and nib, and after she took them secured his breastplate once more and stood, strode off in search of Lyna.

Alisaie watched him go and heaved a sigh of relief. Whatever he’d seen that made him decide to do it, she didn’t much care right now. Only that he moved on from this grim work he’d taken upon himself.

She realized her mistake all too soon.

* * *

Some strange quality in Lyna’s voice rang flat, and Aden’s ears canted forward as she pushed off from the stone and excused herself. When she collapsed he reacted a second too late, only reaching her side after she already lay on the ground, shouting out her frustration. Each name carved into that stone burned as the words fell from her lips, “Hale and hearty and still alive to mourn those who are not. Who I failed to protect when they needed me most.”

Aden clenched his hands into fists, unsure what to do. He knew were he in her place he would shun platitudes or a kind hand, taking dark solace in his own desperate rage. So he merely crouched there at her side. “I know.” He said nothing else.

** _“_ ** **_Impudent worms of the Crystarium.”_** His gaze shot up at that voice, ears pinned and tail lashing. Three particolored airships drifted lazily above, bumbling by as if ignorant of the carnage beneath. **_“The tragedy that has befallen you is of your own making. Divine retribution for your defiance.”_**

A growl rose up in him, blind rage boiling to the surface. _ Vauthry _ . Of course, because the sin eaters in his den had been meek as kits--who _ else _ could have directed them? If not him then someone in his employ. The other Scions drew near as the airships drew fully overhead, but Aden scarcely noticed, head full of calculations. He rose to his feet smoothly as the song burned in his blood once more. Without the oppressive aether of before pressing down on him he stood a good chance--no, _ better _ than good. Aden took several steps away from Lyna out towards the courtyard and pulled his spear. No time for hesitation, because even at their slowest the airships would soon be out of range. He made an assumption based on their formation about which one carried Vauthry, and held his spear down and behind him, haft along his arm. From deep within he called on the very wellspring of his strength as a dragoon, that connection he bore to the great wyrms, and sheathed his form in scales of aether as he had in Lyhe Ghiah.

“Aden, don’t--!”

“He can’t possibly--”

It didn’t matter which of the Scions shouted it. He’d end this _ now _, preferably in a fiery crash outside the walls. Aden jumped with as much force as he could muster--

Several yalms above the ground some unseen force seized his limbs and jerked him back and _ downwards _ , straining to overcome him. Just a moment’s hesitance was enough to irreparably intervene in his trajectory, and Aden dropped like a stone out of the sky. One adrenaline filled moment of _ panic _ seized him, as the amount of energy he’d put into that jump might pulverize a portion of the courtyard, and he set about dissipating it as quickly as possible. At the last moment that fine edge of dark power surged forward, and as he slammed into the stone it took the brunt of the impact, evaporating away as quickly as it’d come. The drachenmaille took the hit, and the dampeners kicked into overdrive so abruptly aether tingled across his skin. His head still slammed into the stone despite all that, and his vision blackened, blood exploding in the back of his mouth.

That dark power pushed to the forefront, clearing his vision, and Aden hauled himself to his feet. He knew the fine golden threads of that aether by now, the _ feel _ of it, and he lurched as he reeled on Urianger who stood just outside the small crater left by Aden’s landing. Blood poured from his nose at the shift in position, spilled thick down the back of his throat. “What the _ fuck _ was that? Why in all _ seven _hells did you stop me?”

“Dost thou truly believe the man General Ran’jit serves wouldst show himself without preparations to receive thee?” Urianger made no attempt to disguise his concern, some strange aspect to his expression as he regarded Aden, almost--fear?

Alphinaud dared approach, picking his way carefully over the broken cobbles. “He will answer for this in time. But we are needed here, now.”

Aden looked around at the wounded and dead scattered across the courtyard, reached up to wipe blood away from his mouth, smearing it across his gauntlet with that of the soldier whose hand he’d held as she passed.

They were both right.

* * *

Urianger had jerked Aden’s broken nose into place and set the bone with magic--his cheek as well, which had apparently cracked. Otherwise the fall had badly bruised him _ everywhere _, but he wasn’t stiff yet as he made his way down to the Hortorium to find Minfillia. She stood gazing out at the pure, dark water, and for a moment he regarded the lonely figure she struck. He knew the look all too well, and hesitated, warring with himself. When he was younger, before… before he’d needed that cold, heavy stone, he had desperately wanted someone to come to him in moments like this. So Aden strode up to her and took a place at her side, looking out at the water with her. She didn’t seem to notice, so he gave a soft, “Hey.”

Minfilia startled with an undignified sound, clapping her hands over her mouth as she spun to look at him, and only then relaxed. “Oh, Aden. What are you doing here?”

“Some old man mentioned you might be down here,” he answered, and gave her a lopsided grin as half of his face was a nasty, bruising mess.

“Thancred…” She looked down, hands wringing at her dress. “It's my fault, you know. I jumped at the chance to help Lyna, but I was careless. And now…”

“You really think he wouldn’t have leapt to Lyna’s aid if you weren’t there?” Minfilia opened her mouth to reply, then quickly closed it, looking aside into the water.

For a long moment she remained silent, brows furrowing in thought. Finally she said, “It's my fault.”

He knew that tone all too well, and that there’d be no moving her on the subject. “I don’t think that matters to him, but if it matters to you, you should make up for it.”

“How?”

Aden resisted the urge to frown. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, and his tail twitched as he quickly considered what to say. “Just be there, that’ll be a start.”

She resisted at first, clinging to her guilt, but finally concluded, “You're right. I can still help─if only by seeing these herbs safely to Chessamile.” Aden’s tail stopped twitching as she pulled out a scrap of paper and held it such that he could see it. “There are only two left on the list, but I'll need to ask about this one. I've looked high and low, and I can't seem to find it anywhere. Would you mind collecting the other? I would hate to delay any longer than I already have.”

“I’ll do you one better,” he said. “I know what just about everything down here is, let’s find them together.”

* * *

In the morning it took half a bell and calling on that dark power for Aden to force himself out of bed against a wretched full body ache. He wore no armor but the lined jacket, something he could easily doff and don, but even the weight of that irritated him. Pain was and old friend, but after the outcome of the day before and the dark thoughts churning in the back of his mind he felt _ miserable _. As soon as it seemed appropriate he made his way up the Crystalline Mean, collected the lute from Thiuna’s stall and headed over to an open crafting benches.

“Aden?”

He hadn’t been at it long, and raised a hand to Thiuna in greeting. She drew near, and made a soft, “Oh,” of alarm when he looked up. “Is everything… going well?”

“<blip>Analyzing… <buzz> comparing to archived data…. Aden estimated operating at seventy percent capacity. You look like hell!”

“Noddy!”

Aden just lifted one of his tools at the node bobbing behind Thiuna. “Thanks. And yeah. As good as can be expected.”

“Well that’s… good.” Aden looked away before her concern grew overwhelming, canting his ears away from her in a sign he wasn’t interested in talking. “I thought perhaps you could take the day off?”

“And do what?” He asked flatly. He had nothing against Thiuna--quite the opposite in fact--but he wasn’t in the mood for any misplaced concern or a lecture.

She sighed heavily, and dropped down onto the stool next to him. “Aden. You really _ do _ look like you should be resting. Do you realize one of your eyes is almost swollen shut?”

“Hard to miss,” he answered without looking up. “If I don’t do something I’ll wind up stiff as a board. It’ll be worse.”

“_ Aden _ ,” she repeated, a soft plea in her voice. “I know I expressed that the lute is important to me but you’ve worked at this day and night. _ What _ is going _ on? _”

He jerked back his hand before it made a mistake in the wood, hand clenching tight around the handle of the tool. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s too late for that.” She settled one elegant hand on his arm, and he jerked away. “_ Please _. You can talk to me.”

“No, I can’t.” He straightened up out of his stoop over the new components for the instrument, finally turning to look at her. She sat with one arm on the table where he’d jerked away from her, the other over her knee, leaning forward but not fully invading his space. “And even if I could, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Is it,” she looked around, lowering her voice to a whisper, “about the Warrior of Darkness thing?”

With a sigh he leaned back, not bothering to ask where she’d heard that. For all her naivete Thiuna wasn’t _ stupid _, and he easily believed she’d put two and two together. “Just drop it. Please.”

“I won’t!” she hissed. “I’m worried about you. You’re as hard a worker as I am, but this isn’t _ good _ for you. I don’t want you to fix the lute at the expense of your own wellbeing! And something’s been… different about you since I showed it to you.” Thiuna leaned back as well, regarding him with a watchful eye. “You’ve seen it before, haven’t you?”

Aden jabbed the tool in his hand into the bench, leaving it upright. “You really want to know? That badly?” Anger burned cold in him, formless and vague, and that fine edge of dark power pressed down against that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be, a voice so like his own whispered _ no _ in his ear. “I’m not from wherever the Exarch’s from, that’s a godsdamn lie. I’m from where the _ Tower _ is from. I was part of an expedition to explore it, alongside someone who gave up his future to keep what we found safe.” Aden’s throat tightened, and he paused for a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Every single _ godsdamn _ place I look here reminds me of him, and he was the last person I heard play this _ fucking _ lute. I didn’t think I’d ever see it again and it’s a _ wrecked piece of trash _ . It’s like somebody picked up my memory of him and smashed it so I _ have to fix this bloody lute _ but I don’t know the first _ godsdamn thing _ about making an instrument, except whatever comes out of this is going to have so much new _ shit _ on it it’ll be a _ completely new thing _.”

Appropriately Thiuna merely stared at him, stunned, for a long time. Aden took another heavy breath and went back to his work, trying _ very _ hard to hyperfocus on the feeling of the wood beneath his hands. He’d never have back what he’d lost, only an inadequate replica. Something constructed out of _ theory _ and logic rather than from the heart--and an instrument made to exacting specifications wasn’t the same as the masterpiece he needed to emulate. You had to know something about music, and _ feel out _ the instrument as you made it. Aden was the absolute _ last _ person who should be doing this.

So absorbed in his work he didn’t notice when Thiuna left, but he certainly noticed when a particular voice picked up in her place. “My, my, that was quite the tale.” Reflexively Aden reached for a chisel he wouldn’t need for some time and flung it in Emet-Selch’s direction. He looked up in time to watch the ascian catch it, turning it over in his hand. He leaned against the support pillar next to the bench, gazing down at Aden through half-lidded eyes.

“Kindly fuck off,” Aden told him, but he didn’t _ dare _ start working again for fear the ascian might find a way to interfere.

“After you’ve provided me the first _ real _ insight into who you are? No, I think not. As I’ve mentioned, I am trying to see eye to eye with you. And to that end I must get to know you. To date all the facts I possessed are thus: an accounting of your deeds, that you are _ fluent _ in the filthier parts of dragon speech, and you’ve a penchant for _ annoying _ me.” 

“The feeling’s mutual,” he muttered.

Emet-Selch merely smiled. “Well, I suppose we see eye to eye on _ one _ thing already. But now I know that loss drives you, though I cannot say it comes as much of a surprise after seeing some of your rather unique skills.”

“Here to gloat about it? Needle me or something? I’ll warn you I’m in a fighting mood.”

The ascian tilted his head, openly scrutinizing Aden. “But not quite fighting shape, I think. No, I am not here to antagonize you today. I truly do want to hear more about your old friend.”

Aden turned on the stool, abandoning his work altogether. “_ Why _? How are you going to twist it?”

A little frown curled Emet-Selch’s lips, an expression of consideration that seemed quite genuine. At length he answered, “Your drive reminds me very much of an old friend. He was loyal and stubborn to a fault, and nothing ever stood in his way when it came to those he considered his own. He was so adept at solving problems that when he found one he could not fix it drove him to madness.”

Aden scoffed. “Is that the bastard who came up with Zodiark? If so I’ll take offense.”

“No,” Emet-Selch said softly. “No, he did something far worse.”

The Echo finally sputtered and sparked into activity, his broken version of Krile’s gift at that moment offering him a glimpse of loss, betrayal, and a sort of deep longing that resonated so strongly it reached for a moment beneath that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be. That voice so like his own screamed in his head, but once stirred the feeling would not settle until the words left his lips. “His name was G’raha Tia, and he was the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“G’raha,” Emet-Selch repeated. “Well you may not believe me, but I am truly sorry for your loss. I understand all too well what it’s like to watch someone sacrifice themselves and to be left behind.”

“That’s the first thing you’ve ever said that I’m inclined to believe.”

Emet-Selch laughed bitterly. “Well, I suppose that’s two things we see eye to eye on now, is it?” He turned away, a little of that dark aura of ascian magic spilling out around the edges of his form, but he paused before disappearing entirely and looked back over his shoulder at Aden. “His name was Odysseus.” He hesitated, as if about to add something else, or perhaps looking for a reaction--but seemed to think better of it and vanished.

“What the hells kind of name is that,” Aden muttered to himself, and set back to work on the lute.

* * *

Y’shtola arrived at the Crystalline Mean early in the morning, and found what she expected: Aden sat at a bench paying such loving, gentle care to a few scraps of wood he seemed like an entirely different person from the man she knew. Just as he had been on her previous excursions, though this time she drew nearer, selecting a bench of her own behind and out of sight. She placed a satchel fit to bursting on the bench, then her staff. Slowly, so she could glance up at the swirl of aether currents that made up her comrade, she pulled one materia after another from the bag and organized them by grade on the bench. In the time it took her to do this the aether currents around Aden shifted, and another figure approached him. The owner of the stall he’d been assisting, she eventually puzzled out from the notably less distinct pattern of aether. They spoke in hushed tones, briefly drew close, and then Aden stabbed the tool he was using into the surface of his bench, bruised hand shaking on it. She saw that darkness bloom up in him as before, hard and solid once again. And around it she noticed his aether seemed more sluggish than before, the currents and eddies that comprised his form visible in her eyes lazily swirling about. Y’shtola frowned deeply, examining him as best she could from this distance and while his attention was elsewhere.

At length the viis left, seeming distraught, and Aden returned to his work. Scarcely enough time passed for him to become engrossed before a dark shimmer appeared next to him, and Y’shtola tensed, hand gripping her staff--Emet-Selch appeared next to him, solid as he would be in the flesh in Y’shtola’s sight. Aden’s surface aether lost some of that laziness, and his body screamed tension, tail twitching and ears pinned. But Emet-Selch made no move against him, content instead with the sound of his own voice. He vanished without incident, and Y’shtola’s grip on her staff relaxed.

She had not puzzled out what Aden worked at so feverishly, the parts only vague smears of weak aether, but no opportunity had presented itself for her to lay hands on them. He paid little heed to the world around him, only looking up when someone at another bench dropped a particularly large object and struggled to right it. He left his work for a moment, ventured over to the other bench to offer a hand. _ Finally _ an opportunity presented itself, and Y’shtola tensed to move.

“Ah, there you are.” Her tail fluffed and her ears pinned at the sudden voice behind her, but she quickly composed herself and turned to see Alphinaud standing there. “Urianger asked me to come find you and ask if you would be interested in lunch today?”

“Alphinaud! Yes, of course. What time is it?”

“Nearly mid-day already,” he answered, and his gaze drifted over her shoulder. “Oh, there’s Aden. I should ask--”

“_ No _ ,” she hissed, and grabbed his arm. Then she realized how that _ sounded _, and quickly amended, “I mean to say--as you can see I have my hands full here are the moment, and I am not quite ready to leave.” She gestured at the half-melded staff on the bench. “I have noticed he has also been rather occupied, so perhaps tell Urianger we will both be late, and I will see to his invitation.”

“That seems quite reasonable.” She relaxed as he gave her a smile, obviously pleased with the arrangement. Again his attention drifted though, and this time, “Oh, there’s the Exarch! Perhaps I should invite him as well?”

Y’shtola grabbed him by the arm again and pulled him down onto the stool next to her. “_ Quiet _ ,” she hissed. Alphinaud gave her a strange look but obeyed. She turned to look back at Aden’s bench, and found the Exarch reaching out to touch one of the objects Aden had been working with, his head tilted low and hiding any hint of expression but his personal aether an absolute _ storm _ of motion. Whatever he saw agitated him in some way, though Y’shtola could not make sense of it. He jerked his hand away, looking up to greet Aden as he returned to the bench. Aden leaned against the far side of the bench with his hip, gesturing at the items on the surface, and eventually picked up one of the longer ones, describing something about it.

“Is he making a _ lute _?” Alphinaud asked, leaning around her shoulder. “I had no idea he had any skill with instruments.”

“Is that what it is?” Y’shtola asked. “I cannot make out the form, but he works on it like a man possessed. I have been here watching him when I can, trying to determine if what he is doing is harmful. You know of late he has been….”

“Stranger than usual?” She heard the frown in Alphinaud’s voice, but her gaze fixed on Aden and the Exarch as Aden handed over the object. The Exarch made a show of examining it, though his aether seemed to approach some critical mass of motion as he held the item. “Yes, his outburst when we attempted to discuss Emet-Selch’s assertion still concerns me. I wonder if he’s… _ avoiding _ the idea.”

“He stands to suffer most should it be revealed for truth,” she replied, “for has our mission these many years not been to eliminate the influence of primals? And he has stood at the forefront. To think he may have been under the influence of one all along… it bears reexamining all that we are.”

The Exarch handed the item back, trading it for another that seemed identical. They spoke at length, and over the course of the conversation _ everything _ in Aden’s demeanor changed. Much of the tension drained out of him, his tail swaying with interest and his ears canted towards the Exarch providing his whole attention, his distressingly sluggish aether seemed to normalize somewhat. Most notably that swell of darkness resolved once more into a recognizable shape, clasped hands pressing down--but the longer they talked the harder it seemed, until in her vision it was solid as Emet-Selch’s form had been. The Exarch said something, and Aden _ laughed _ . Just a short sound, but loud enough to hear clearly, and the smile lingered on his face. Light shone through hairline fractures across that darkness, faint but _ vibrant _, not washed out as the rest of him had become. 

“Have you _ ever _ seen Aden smile like that?” She asked, not tearing her gaze away. They began to gather up the items on the bench together, 

“Yes,” Alphinaud murmured, voice soft and strangely reverent. Aden and the Exarch cleared the work bench and put the items away at the stall. The Exarch turned to him and gestured, clearly asking a question, and Aden nodded his assent. “...With Haurchefant.” The Exarch settled a hand on Aden’s shoulder and Y’shtola saw the bright glimmer of healing aether pass between them.

“Twelve preserve me,” Y’shtola muttered, turning back to her half-melded staff. “Why can’t this be _ simple? _”

* * *

“Ah, here you are.” Lyna turned her head from the view of the city to find Alisaie mounting the platform behind her. The young woman boldly crossed to her side without so much as a by your leave, and Lyna smiled softly in spite of her melancholy mood. “Oh, that’s quite a lovely view.”

"Indeed, it is. Is there aught you require of me?" At least Lyna need not pretend at sociability while in such a dark mood, one benefit of her outward demeanor.

"My comrades are gathering for lunch, and when I heard you were off duty for the moment I thought to invite you. It seems we so rarely have the chance to speak when we're not fighting for our lives."

She seemed to speak frankly, hopeful but with little pressure behind her words. "Thank you, but I am not fit company at the moment."

"Well, that's quite alright. Neither am I half the time." Alisaie smiled at her own joke, but followed with, "I understand, though. If you need to…." She trailed off, gaze flicking away in something that resembled embarrassment. "Nevermind. I'll leave you to it."

Alisaie turned to go, and with the threat gone Lyna entertained the thought. Though young the woman had seen much, and seemed heartfelt and discreet in matters of feeling. She might understand. Perhaps….

"I am certain you have heard the stories." Lyna raised her voice to be heard. Alisaie stopped at the stairs and turned back. "My grandfather comes here to think. Tis a good place for it. Quiet, but not lonely." She gestured out at the city as Alisaie returned to her side. "He raised me on fantastic stories, legends of heroes he told so vividly I could see them in my mind's eye. I believed them real, men and women he had known, though I know now… such things are unattainable." Lyna closed her eyes, remembering when she was still small enough to sit on her grandfather's knee, those rarest times in absolute private when he drew back his hood and she marveled at the expressiveness of his ears. "One in particular he spoke of as brave above all, absolutely indomitable. No matter how many times he fell he rose again, driven by a quiet and abiding hope beneath all else. He was plainly my grandfather's favorite, and even when I grew out those stories I held that example in my heart. If I could… _ become _ that hero, emulate him, then we would always rise again. He told those stories with such love….” She opened her eyes, gazing out at the city. “So every time I fall, I come here, and I think on him. I tell myself those stories. I remember the joy in my grandfather’s eyes. And I strive to pick myself back up and carry on.”

“Your hero sounds a lot like Aden,” Alisaie said quietly. “Though he’s a bit grumpier. No wonder the Exarch summoned him after learning about him.”

Those words resounded in her head, and Lyna’s eyes snapped wide. Her grandfather had always insisted they were fairy stories, but he told them in such detail they sounded _ true _ . And even as a young child she’d come to see her grandfather’s regard for that hero seemed more than fondness for a character in a story. In her childish mind when she’d first conceptualized romantic love, she’d wished for that hero to come and whisk her grandfather off his feet, to make him happy as he made others happy, to care for him as he cared for everyone. She’d nearly forgotten that, buried it deep inside with other childish fancies, dismissed it as the place in which he held his bottomless wellspring of hope. But now with new eyes she looked back on those stories, and wondered, _ what if they were real _?

As if the thought summoned them she saw from the corner of her eye a familiar flash of colors, and looked down to see the Crystal Exarch standing at Aden’s side as the man leaned against the fence of the amaro pens, talking to one of the handlers. Over the years she’d become quite adept at reading her grandfather’s body language despite his concealing robes. The slight lean he made towards Aden, the way he inclined his head, the little _ smile _ that curled his full lips--it was how she had always imagined he might act around his beloved hero when she entertained such thoughts.

Lyna didn’t know how, but she was _ certain _ now the man from those stories was real, flesh and blood, and walking at her grandfather’s side with a fantastically black eye, smiling through his bruises every time her grandfather spoke or gestured. They eventually entered the pens and Aden crouched down with one of the amaro, explaining something about it with the aid of the handler.

“Thank you,” Lyna said, her voice steady after years of steeling herself for such things, “for listening to me. And for your invitation. But I will still pass. I have much to consider, and yet many duties to attend to this afternoon.”

“You’re welcome,” Alisaie said, and Lyna had the distinct impression she meant it. “If you ever need anything….” With that the girl left Lyna alone with her revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by my FC mates double rescuing me out of a limit break


	14. For Joy and Sorrow Walk Hand in Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one defines you but yourself.
> 
> And;
> 
> Even the mighty will fall alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can yell at me on Twitter [@AStormcalled](https://twitter.com/AStormcalled) or Tumblr [@dellebecque](https://dellebecque.tumblr.com/)

Urianger’s concern touched her, and Minfilia turned his words over and over in her mind. As much as she knew he meant well… he wasn’t the one whose opinion mattered. She closed her eyes, breathing slowly in an attempt to stave off tears. If she gave herself up, let the  _ real _ Minfilia have her, she’d save everyone. And maybe for one instant, one moment, Thancred would be grateful, and  _ proud _ . And he’d have everything he wanted.

The boards creaked and she whipped around from her perch atop the platform to find Aden--she quickly wiped her eyes with her wrist and smiled for him. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” She wanted to be alone here, to think, but she wouldn’t send him away. Urianger cared about her, but Aden… Aden was something else. She couldn’t help but feel like she had known him for a long time, despite having known him only a little while. She knew he must miss the real Minfilia from how he talked about her, but… he never made her feel like he wanted her to be here instead. Still, she wondered. He  _ must _ ; she’d be useful.

“Didn’t bring much,” he said, and sat down next to her, dangling his legs over the side of the platform.

And that was that. For a long time he said nothing, looking out over the desert, and she watched him, waiting for some attempt to cheer her up or some platitude. It was easy to forget sometimes that he was an adult, because he spoke to her so easily and didn’t treat her like a child, but he was. And he’d surely have something to say.

Eventually it grew too much to bear, the high ringing sound of the eternal light overhead that she’d never noticed before the return of night uncomfortable and oppressive. “Are you alright?” Because that was safe. It was safe to ask about someone else. Make them talk about themselves. “You walked away while Magnus was talking about his wife.”

His ears shifted inward slightly, and the tip of his tail did a little flick. “Yeah. Just got to me. It was… familiar.”

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t want to presume who he was thinking about, but she thought maybe she knew, listening to the twins talk in the few times they’d been together in the Crystarium. But she wanted very much for the conversation to stay focused on  _ him _ . “Would you like to… tell me about it?”

Aden sighed heavily, and leaned back on his elbows. It put his tail mostly out of view from her position, but his ears fell back as if fully relaxed. “I was going to marry someone. He died defending me. That’s it.”

“Oh.” Her mouth formed the surprised little sound before her mind caught up with the stark brevity of his explanation. “That’s, um… not how everyone else talks about their loved ones.”

“I lost myself.” But he didn’t  _ seem _ upset about it. He said it very matter of factly, his tone a little dark but otherwise… he could be talking about the price of something at a market. “I’m still losing myself. But that’s not what I came up here to talk to you about.”

“Oh,” she repeated, and drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.  _ Here it comes _ . The conversation she didn’t want to have. Where Aden tried very hard to convince her everything was fine and everything would be alright. Where he finally proved he didn’t understand, and didn’t care enough to try to understand.

“My da gave me up when I was so young I barely remember him.” Minfilia’s head jerked up; that  _ wasn’t _ what she’d expected  _ at all _ . “He sent me away to two friends of my mother, and they were good to me… but I always wondered what I’d done that was so bad I got sent away. What had to be wrong with me, what I did to make him not love me. I worried it'd happen again the instant they saw whatever he had. So I always… tried to prove I was worth something. Didn't say no, or tell people what I wanted. Stayed quiet all the time and lived in my own head because I was worried if what was inside got out…" He shifted his weight to one arm and made a vague gesture with the other. "And I convinced myself that the people who stayed only did it because I was useful. Because I'd break myself over and over and do miracles for them. Things no one else could."

Minfilia squeezed her arms around her legs, and looked down. She'd asked herself many times why her parents hadn't tried to keep her, why no one had ever come for her during her captivity… because gilded as her cage had been it was  _ stifling.  _ Everything was dictated to her, all  _ for her own good.  _ And even now, free of those bars… she yet lived in them. "You don't seem like that now," she murmured.

"I lost everyone, once." He looked very far off, like he no longer saw the vast desert around them. "And I had no one to answer to. No one to please. But they hadn't left me, they'd been  _ taken _ . And even if I… secretly resented how they treated me, they were all I had."

"The Scions?" She knew without asking, though she couldn't imagine sweet Urianger treating anyone like that. But she racked her brain for seeing them in some friendly circumstance together outside of the ill-fated lunch meetings. Minfilia remembered the day he'd walked out of one, and worried at her bottom lip, brow furrowing.

"I had to decide what to do," he continued--because he didn't need to answer, and they both knew it. "I had to decide how to be. And I realized I  _ liked _ it. I fought like hell to get them back--and by then I didn't need them to like me any more. I had myself." Aden rubbed a hand over his face, seemingly come back to their surroundings. "I found out that da sent me away because he wanted me to be safe, because he did dangerous work and didn't want me to follow in his footsteps. But I spent my whole life chasing what little I remembered of him. It felt right to do  _ exactly  _ what he didn't want me to do… and it  _ pissed me off _ when I realized he'd made that choice for me, taken it away. When I thought about it I realized Ma and Mam had been so keen on me taking their farm for the same reason: they'd shackle me to keep me  _ safe _ if they could. All these people, the ones I broke myself for, my parents--the ones who gave up everything for me--none of them ever asked me what I wanted, none of them took the time to help me figure it out when I was too messed up inside to say it." Aden shifted to look at her, mismatched eyes sharp and focused but his expression gentle. "What do you want, Minfilia?"

"I want--" she stopped before the words tumbled out of her mouth, squeezed her eyes shut and hugged herself almost bruising hard. She could say it. She could say it to him. "I want to have myself, too. I want to prove that I'm-- _ worth _ something, not just… just…." Tears choked her, and she buried her face in her knees, shamed at how easily and  _ uselessly  _ she burst into tears. What good had tears been all her life? But she wept all the same, her body reacting to a deep  _ need _ , even as she wasn't sure she meant what she said. What did she want?

After a moment a strong arm wrapped around her shoulders, and rather than bury her face in her knees she buried it in Aden's side, sobbing into the leather of his armored jacket.  _ What do you want? _

"I want--I want him to look at  _ me.  _ To see  _ me _ , not her. Just once. Just once I want to be more… more than…"

Aden never shushed her, never told her it'd be alright--because it  _ wouldn't.  _ Either she would go away or Thancred would finally lose the most important person in his world. Nothing would  _ ever _ be alright again.

"I want to  _ fight.  _ I don't want to be left behind. I don't want to be a burden, or get anyone hurt. I want to  _ do something.  _ I want to  _ help people like everyone else does. _ "

_ What do you want? _

_ I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't-- _

* * *

Minfilia knew more fear at the sight of Ran’jit waiting on the tracks than she did sailing through the air. She lost all sense of up or down, hit the ground and rolled, tried to catch herself but just skinned her palms and her knees. Everything spun for a long time, and she heard them arguing before she managed to get her hands under here again and push up, sand grinding into the scrapes on her palms.

“You will remain as you are, while I dispatch these villains.”

Something unfamiliar, and ugly, and  _ freeing _ welled up out of her stomach like molten metal, and she spat it in her words, “No! I won't...! I won't let you!” She didn’t know  _ how _ , because she was  _ useless _ , but she  _ meant it _ .

Ran’jit gave her that  _ look _ he’d used a hundred times, just… disappointed. Upset.  _ Angry _ this time, but like he wasn’t really looking  _ at her _ . And she knew now--he wasn’t. It was different from the way Thancred didn’t look at her, though, and she  _ hated _ it. “You forget to whom you speak! Who armed you? Trained you? Fought and killed a thousand sin eaters with you!?”

That molten-metal feeling seared her and felt heavy and hot in her chest. Her heart hammered, her whole body shook with it--but it wasn’t fear. Tears prickled her eyes, but it wasn’t sorrow.  _ That’s not me _ , she thought every time he said something.  _ That’s not me and that’s never been me _ . She understood--Ran’jit was holding on to the idea of her, of who she had been once but would never be again--not after today. It made her need even more urgent, the thought that she would revenge her years of captivity by really and  _ truly _ taking from him the thing she represented to him.

That scared her, somewhere deep inside, but all she felt was molten,  _ boiling _ , hot as the newfound sun in the Lightless skies. He had taken so  _ much _ from her-- _ choice _ most of all--and he would take nothing else. When he finished that molten metal spilled over her lips, shuddered over her words. “I don't know about the world...but I never asked to be saved.” She knew now why Aden had told her that story. “However much it hurts, and however hard it gets, it's my life, and I want to live it on my own terms!” Her rage felt  _ liberating _ , and justified. She knew what she wanted, and  _ nothing _ would keep her from it. “And those “mad fools” you want me to abandon? The ones I've traveled with, fought with, and may one day die with─they feel the same.”

Because they did,  _ all of them _ they did, and she saw that now. Aden’s story had shown her a different side of the Scions--but what he  _ hadn’t _ said told her even more. Why if they paid him so little mind did he stay? They all fought for the same thing, bled for the same thing--and she wanted it, too. “So no, I will not be deceived! No matter what you say, I refuse to believe it's all for nothing! They're everything to me. All I have and all I need. And I would gladly do anything for them.”

She  _ understood _ . And that speared through that ugly, molten feeling, sweet and cool like the first time she’d seen the night sky. “Let us pass, or kill me. I'm not leaving here without them.”

He railed, he launched himself at her--and she startled, but she stayed her ground. She felt the telltale rush of air from Aden landing an arm’s length from her--but Thancred was  _ faster _ somehow, in front of her in a flash, sword raised as he batted away Ran’jit like he was a ball in some macabre game. Minfilia gasped--because like every other time, that Thancred came to her defense surprised her. Why would he, if she was worth so little to him?

...Why would he?

“I heard what you said. And I'm sorry for all the things I've left unspoken.”

_ What do you want? _

“You have to go. Now!” All that molten rage still roiled in her, and it warred against chill fear--he’d  _ tricked _ his way out of every fight with Ran’jit, but alone, and needing to buy them time there’d be no tricking his way out. Thancred had to stand.

“Thancred, no─”

He cut her off, yelled for her to go, and while she stood paralyzed with indecision he called out to Aden instead--who turned a patient look on her despite the impending battle. A question without asking. Waiting.

_ What do you want? _

Minfilia nodded.

* * *

Aden knew before sight returned that he had passed from the Echo vision and out of physical reality--it happened enough and you got a sense for it. He blinked against brilliant light, shimmering and golden, and immediately recognized the familiar  _ warmth _ of an old comrade. One of the names written on that cold, heavy stone. And there she was, as in the flesh as she would ever be again.

He kept his distance, clasped his hands behind his back, studied each of their faces and committed them to memory just in case. He focused on that heavy weight, denied himself hope, and let them speak. There was no one else in existence Minfilia needed to meet more. So he watched, and he waited, and felt grateful he was here to see them both.

Whatever happened, they’d both  _ chosen _ this.

When Minfilia turned her attention to him he resisted the urge to bow his head and look away. Aden  _ made _ himself meet her eerie gaze and try to see his old ally in her, not just the influence of the Mother Crystal. A primal.

...Was this, then, what Hydaelyn’s tempering looked like?

Aden swallowed back his bitter resentment for her--and went perfectly still when she stood before him, reached out her hands and cupped his cheeks, ran her fingers over the little twists of metal affixed at his temples. “Dearest friend… forgive me this small indulgence. It has been so long since I saw you as myself, though I watched with the eyes of the Mother. So much has changed… for the better, and the worse. I am sorry I was not there.”

“It’s fine.” it wasn’t, and it was. “You had work to do, yeah? A different kind of diplomacy.”

Her peaceful smile curled a little, her dimples just barely showing. “I think my arguments have been rather convincing thus far, and here you are to back them up once more.”

“Like old times?” His voice quavered, and he grasped for that fine edge of dark power--it coiled somewhere low in him, silent, waiting, and did not answer his call. He pressed his thoughts to that cold, heavy stone--this was  _ precisely _ the sort of pain they’d made their bargain for, the thing he could not abide.

“Like old times,” she answered. Her hands fell away, only for one to gently press against his jacket over his heart. “Erase that name,” a pleading edge cut into her voice, and the mischief fell from her smile. “You have not lost me. I am not gone.” The press of her hand grew so firm he braced himself against it, and that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be warmed, sweet and gentle like the first sunrise of spring. “Nor have you lost any of these others. They have given their lives and their futures, yes, but accuse them not of selfishness. They chose to live on in you, in the way they have touched your life, in the legacy you will build for them. Their love, and their trust, like mine, are  _ absolute _ . You must not lock them away.”

“I can’t--” His voice broke, and he  _ shook _ with the effort of restraining--everything. Without Fray’s hands to help him he pressed down him _ self _ on that stone--still heavy, no longer cold. He felt the hairline cracks across the surface, the lines of freeze-thaw where what lay trapped beneath might escape--and he would be done for.

“My dearest friend, you do a hundred impossible things every day. You work miracles from tragedies. Work one for yourself, I beg of you.” Her hand drew away, and Aden finally remembered to breathe. She looked back over her shoulder at her namesake, regarding the girl with pride. “No words can express my gratitude to you for keeping her safe in these tumultuous times. You are a hero to us both.” When she returned her gaze to him Aden pressed a hand to his chest, where hers had been, as if he could  _ physically _ press down on that stone. “But not even the most valiant heroes can stand alone. Only together may you change the fate of two worlds.”

_ Together _ .

It took everything he had to hold that stone together.

* * *

Aden pushed himself up from the sand, head reeling and chest aching as always after a vision. He staggered over to Minfilia, mostly gathered himself before her crouched down beside her and reached out to gently shake her awake. She made a discontented little noise, and opened her eyes--perfectly  _ normal _ , lovely pale blue eyes. He couldn’t help but stare as she pushed herself up. Everything about her was different--oh, she was obviously the same person, but something in the air around her even  _ felt _ different. “What happened? I remember speaking with Minfilia...and then…” She rubbed at her eyes and looked up to catch him staring. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know that  _ wrong _ is the word for it. Your hair and your eyes,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “They’re… different.”

She picked at a lock of hair, pulling it forward and running the strands through her fingers, a soft little smile curling her lips. “A parting gift, I think. Thank you.” The smile reached her eyes, gentle and warm--like Minfilia’s, but different. “For asking me what I wanted.”

“I’m just glad you figured it out.” He offered her a hand up.

* * *

Aden found the Scions beyond the ridge, at the nearest cluster of structures not half-swallowed by the Flood. His ears flicked and twitched curiously at their reactions to his return,  _ distressed _ at their apparent relief--for once this particular ability of the Echo functioned, and he  _ felt _ little touches of their concern weighting their words. He was grateful for the distraction of their verbal jabs at one another, how quickly they fell to other topics--but there was something else there, too, something he couldn’t look at too closely.

When Minfilia arrived he was  _ doubly _ grateful--that she’d arrived safely, that she approached them hesitant but full of purpose and ready to wield the weapon she now possessed. And yes, that they only had eyes for her. It was fitting for her debut out from under the shadow of her namesake. She voiced protestations, and Aden nearly looked away--it was easy to stand here quietly and bask in her triumph, but harder to watch her tread too familiar ground. He still struggled to hold that heavy stone together, yet cooling from their encounter with Minfilia.

“But I want to. You're family. How else would I feel?” After a quiet moment Thancred’s gaze drifted up from Minfilia, looked past her and caught Aden’s--barely, because Aden looked away, jaw set, hands clenching, and cursed that  _ now of all times _ this particular gift functioned.  _ You, too,  _ it said. Minfilia’s plea echoed in his head. How long had this been building? How long had they been like this, and he so used to  _ the way things were _ and holding no hope for change had been willfully blind?  _ What right had they now, after all these years-- _

The warmth no longer came from outside as it had with Minfilia’s touch, but from within, as it had with someone else for those first cracks upon it. He couldn’t let it fracture further, not here and now with so much work undone. With the last Lightwarden gone maybe then he’d retreat into privacy somewhere and remake the bargain, rebuild his defenses.

_ I told you that you must find hands that could heal you of these wounds _ , a voice so like his own whispered.  _ They are here, and in the Crystarium. I will honor our bargain, but you  _ ** _will_ ** _ seek them. Else I will be  _ unable _ to aid you ere long.  _ That unfelt pressure tightened, and Aden took a shaky breath in relief.

Any other foe he would face with utmost courage, but not what they had hidden away beneath that stone.

* * *

Certain things came to Aden’s attention, previously mere suspicions, in the brief period his broken mockery of Krile’s Echo worked. As such he decided that as he needed Ryne—every time he thought or said that name it felt so  _ right— _ he would not separate her from Thancred even for a little while, not with their bond beginning to solidify. Much as it hurt him to watch, that pressure and a dull ache building with every moment, he would do  _ nothing _ that might endanger this. She had a chance where he’d never had one. She could  _ belong _ . And neither would he separate either of them from Urianger—suspicions he wouldn’t name. He hated to leave Alisaie as part of the rear guard, but she didn’t object, seeming to take seriously the potential threat lingering about Amh Araeng and to the Inn should Eulmoran forces discover their location.

So they split themselves almost perfectly in half, some remaining behind to respond to a potential attack, some venturing inward under Ryne’s direction. The cool darkness below felt like a blessing, the air sweet despite how long abandoned the well had lain. Despite the bloody work that awaited them descending felt like a reprieve. Where Ryne’s sense of the Lightwarden was specific, the Echo buzzed a low, dull warning, and the nearer they drew the more it drowned out anything else until they beheld the strangely artful form of the Lightwarden of Amh Araeng.

The Echo’s rhythmic warnings beat in perfect time here, a metronome rather than percussion to the song in his blood, the song he could tell Ryne and Thancred both heard for the first time—still not as deeply as the Exarch had, but he felt no one else  _ could _ . Urianger did not, and he filed away that information for later, when he wasn’t fighting for the future of this world.

Finally the marble wings and the bronzed face clattered to the stone at Aden’s feet. The others drew back, wary as they should be of what came next. The world narrowed down to a single point, familiar by now, not comforting but routine. Only one bastion of Light remained now, and they would  _ win. _

The Light took him.

* * *

“He wakens.”

“Aden? Oh, thank the Gods. Come on, none of that, breathe with me now.”

Someone held him from behind, propped up with his head against their shoulder—the hard press of formed armor against his jacket identified them as Thancred. He blinked his eyes open to darkness past the brush of pale hair. A pair of small hands held one of his. He knew who, even if he could not feel her hands through his gloves, and he squeezed in response.

Another spasm wracked him, and his breath hitched—on the intake—again—he couldn’t take a breath so long as it continued and his chest  _ burned _ like this had been going on for a while. Thancred shushed him again, tried to lead him, and a wave of healing magic--the  _ feeling _ of old books and a warm mug of tea in hand on that aether—took the edge off the pain. Aden tried to follow Thancred’s lead, lacking the energy to even scowl at how weary and leaden his limbs felt.

“He stayed awake through that one, I think the worst is over.”

“Agreed. Let us tarry not.”

They waited like that for a moment, but another convulsion never came. When he had his breath Aden focused on dismissing the Light from the sky—it seemed to take more effort this time. Thancred helped him to his feet, Ryne hovering close at hand but carefully out of the way.

“Aden?” He took one more deep breath, invited that fine edge of dark power to the fore to put some strength into his stride, and turned to face Thancred, still at his shoulder. “What happened?”

“Y’shtola was right.” He didn’t explain; they’d all find out soon enough, and he’d rather it happen back in the Crystarium all at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder how things are going to go back in the Crystarium considering all of Aden's defenses are falling apart... and just what's actually hidden under that stone, hm?


	15. What is Dead and What is Buried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aden returns to the Crystarium, and what's been building beneath that cold, heavy stone can no longer be contained.
> 
> The Exarch realizes it's time to begin damage control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got long so I had to cut it in half. There's more to come for this segment between Amh Araeng and Kholusia, but it might be a bit before I get it up.
> 
> You can yell at me on Twitter [@AStormcalled](https://twitter.com/AStormcalled) or Tumblr [@dellebecque](https://dellebecque.tumblr.com/)

Without the company of the only person in all of Norvrandt who could see him Ardbert made all his usual rounds: he did a few turns ‘bout the city, sat in on some important meetings, found a Eulmoran smuggler (not that he could do a damn thing about it), read over someone’s shoulder until they got ahead of him just enough that he missed two whole lines. Around dinner time he wandered around the Pendants, passing through walls into cheery homes and drifted invisibly past the cozy lives of commonfolk, reeling from Eulmore’s attack yet full of hope. He’d resigned himself to the fact that he could do nothing, doomed to the role of silent observer, a voyeur on all the gentle warmth in their lives he could no longer touch.

At length he returned to Aden’s suite, and finding the man still gone--of course he was, Ardbert could _ tell _ whenever he was near, some sort of unseen force connecting them--settled for the only company available to him. He walked over to the balcony ledge _ covered _ in flowers, window left slightly ajar, and poked his head through. “You out here, big guy?”

“_Screee!” _ Leaves rustled and flowers shook, and out poked a yellow-scaled head with two beady black eyes. It followed up with a softer, “_Scree,” _and slithered out of the flower pot through the gap in the window.

Ardbert took a few steps back from the window, straightening up, and the Great Serpent slithered around his legs a few times. He still hadn’t figured out what it was, with such an indistinct form, a mouth like a leech, and fine, dry scales for skin. It went tooling around the room, crawling into anything it could manage as if searching for something--or some_ one _ \--and every time it came up empty handed it would poke its head back out first, look at him, and, “_Scree! _ ” There was something _ delightful _ about the crazy little thing, and it certainly wasn’t that he had little other entertainment and no other company.

“No, he’s not back yet. More’s the pity for both of us.” He watched as G--because he’d come to think of it as such in his head--wriggled through a bag and back out, pushing a crystal before it. 

The crystal clattered to the floor, and G looked up at him from the bag. “_Scree? _”

“Ah--careful with that!” Ardbert rushed over, even if he couldn’t _ do _ anything. “That’s--that belonged to a friend of mine,” he explained. “She was a powerful huntress. Never met a beast she couldn’t track.”

“_Scree!” _G ducked partway back into the bag, little body shaking, and Ardbert laughed.

“No, I think you’d be safe. Besides, she’s… long gone.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t _ believe _ he was about to explain this to a… whatever G was. “You know what sin eaters are?”

“S_cree _,” G confirmed.

“My friends all… passed,” it still seemed so near to him, “a long time ago. Someone dug up their bodies and used them to make powerful sin eaters. Aden’s been helping put them to rest, but this is the only one he’s found so far.”

“_Scree…. _”

“Thanks,” Ardbert said, voice soft. “They were… they were all good folks, and they deserve better than they got.”

With that G wriggled out of the bag and carefully nudged the crystal back inside. When it finished it slithered over and reared up, bobbing slightly to keep its balance. “_Scree? _”

“No, I’m sure he’s fine.” Ardbert crouched down, rested his forearms against his knees and let his hands dangle. “Aden’s made of tough stuff.”

“_Scree. _”

He tilted his head, giving it a curious look. “You haven’t known him long, why do you say that?”

“_Scree! _”

“Well, you’re right. He has been… strange.” Ardbert glanced towards the window, the thin sliver of lovely night outside. _ Strange _ was putting it mildly. He’d thought their rocky start behind them, but after Aden’s return from Rak’tika he’d been curt, taciturn, though he hadn’t snapped like before. He just didn’t want to talk about _ anything _. “He’s got a lot on his mind.” And Ardbert only knew what from spying: the lute and his old friend; the growing light inside him; and the revelation that his mind might not be his own. “It’s enough to put anyone out of sorts.”

“_Scree….” _ G bowed his round head with a low, mournful sound.

“Don’t worry your scales off, he won’t stay like that.” Ardbert resisted the urge to reach out and pet G comfortingly--it’d just be another hard reminder of his state. “He’s bounced back from everything else, this won’t be any different. And if he doesn’t, well, the Exarch’s taking care of him.”

“S_cree?” _

“Oh, of course you’ve met him--fellow with the fancy robes, always wears a hood, crystal all up his arm and his neck?” Arbert gestured with his opposite hand to describe the area the crystal covered. “He’s the one who arranges for Aden’s meals when he’s here, and the one who sent over those flowers you’ve been napping in all day. And the books, and… other things.” Now that he described it to someone else it seemed rather like a _ wooing_, and Ardbert stood there dumbfounded for a moment. Well, they spent a lot of time together, didn’t they? It could just be a man expressing his gratitude, but the few times he’d followed them around in his absolute _ boredom _ , they had… stood rather close to one another, and he didn’t know much about mystel body language yet Aden’s certainly seemed _ different _ around the Exarch than anyone else. Now he wondered, and he wondered if he’d been keeping them from… well…. Arbdert shook his head, not keen on the mental image that line of thought conjured. That didn’t seem right. 

“_Scree? _”

“It’s nothing.” He shook his head again--it probably _ was _ nothing, unless--perhaps they _ were _ and neither of them _ realized _ …? Or maybe _ Aden _ didn’t. He hadn’t pegged the man for dense, but the Gods only knew how terrible he _ himself _ was at picking up on that sort of thing, and Aden had a _ lot _ on his mind.

Keys jangled at the door. Ardbert stood, and G slithered around behind one of Ardbert’s legs, not seeming to realize he’d offer no barrier at all. A staff member entered, uniform crisp and sharp, to tidy up the room after the several days it’d stood vacant. Aden was a fairly clean person, so there wasn’t much to do. They noticed G and stepped right _ through _ Ardbert to lean down and pet the creature. “Hello, little sir! Been a bit quiet ‘round here, hasn’t it?”

A very soft, _ “Scree… _” answered them.

“Well, your master’s back, no worries. I imagine he’ll be by any minute.” They straightened and went about their work, and while they did another staff member entered and laid out a meal on the table. It smelled _ fantastic _ , and Ardbert felt like his mouth watered even though it _ couldn’t _ any more. The two of them made short work of it, and left the room.

Moments later keys jangled at the door again, and Aden stepped in rather worse for wear, the leather of his armored jacket scuffed and scratched in places and covered in a layer of sand. He didn’t seem to acknowledge either of them right away, but then they weren’t in his immediate field of view. He dropped a bag, unslung his spear, and _ then _ Ardbert cleared his throat--not that he needed to. Aden’s head shot up, body tensing--and then all that drained back out of him. “So this is where you’ve been hiding,” he muttered.

_ He looks tired _ . It was more than that. With their strange bond Arbdert _ felt _ something… _ wrong _ in him, like that exhaustion in his eyes wasn’t natural. “Sometimes the dead would rather not be disturbed. But enough about me─what of Amh Araeng?”

Aden told him, though he wandered into the private bath attached to his suite early in the story and shucked out of his filthy armor. He didn’t have anything Ardbert hadn’t seen. Regardless, he politely stood out of sight

For his part, Aden _ felt _ exhausted, but the story had a purgative effect. He told Ardbert all of it, down to the fine details, though he left out his conversation with Minfilia. By the time he was done he’d washed off the road dust, dressed in something more comfortable (and slipped the dampeners into a pocket) with the jacket he wore to work in the rookery or the hortorium thrown over it, and he felt a little less awful. A little more… himself, and together.

_ Together_.

He tried to ignore that thought, and instead sat down on one of the stools at the table and beckoned the Great Serpent over. “Come here, little fella. I know you’ve been waiting for it.”

“_SCREE!” _ It raced over and he picked it up. It wriggled up inside his jacket, finding a comfortable spot before poking its head out. The weight and the warmth snuggled up were a comfort, as was the confidence of a man who couldn’t betray his secrets. It was probably unfair to think of Ardbert like that, but true.

Aden snatched up a fork and speared something green from one of the plates while Ardbert asked about Minfilia. Rather than answer right away he popped the vegetable into his mouth, and made a satisfied sound in relief.

“You know,” Ardbert crossed his arms, watching Aden with what he found to be an uncomfortable amount of interest--he wondered briefly if the shade was jealous that he was _ eating _, “I hadn’t pegged you for the sort of man to make pets of wild animals.”

Aden took a moment to respond, even alone--or well, with a _ ghost _ \--unwilling to break the table manners his mothers had drilled into him as a child. “It followed _ me _ , I didn’t _ take _ it. Little fella’ll head back eventually, because if that idiot in Slitherbough decides I _ took _ it I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Bright white pain lanced through Aden’s skull, and his shoulders heaved--he caught himself by banging his arm against the table as the Light rose to the surface once more, straining at the bonds of his very soul. A soft sound filled his ears from _ inside _, like cracking crystal, and shuddering lines of pain without rhyme or reason radiated throughout his body, like a knife drawn along the inside of his flesh. He dropped everything in his hands with the second convulsion, and the Great Serpent slithered out onto the table. In between pulses of agony he tried to stand and get clear, fearful he might hurt himself somehow, but merely wound up with the stool tangled between his uncoordinated legs. Aden tripped, caught himself hard on his arm right as another wave of pain hit, this one--stealing his breath--just like--just like--

He felt Ardbert draw near, though he couldn’t hear the man’s voice over the strange sound. When the shade reached out, he knew--and in a spark of sudden _ connection _it subsided, all the disparate parts of him slipping back into alignment. Aden pressed his forehead against the cool wood of the floor, gasping for air.

“What...what just happened?”

_ Together_.

Aden just sat there for a moment, catching his breath, rolling that sensation of _ connection _ over in his mind around the lingering shudder of pain. It was unlike anything he knew in conscious memory, yet _ familiar _ somehow, one of those unusual soul-deep feelings he normally attributed to the Echo. It’d pulled him back together, smoothed over the fraying, ragged edges of him, and the Light coiled low in its prison. Finally he pushed himself up to a sitting position, dragged a hand through his hair and looked tiredly up at Ardbert.

“Minfilia told me, ‘not even the most valiant heroes can stand alone’,” he answered, voice a little worn around the edges. “I thought she meant everybody--maybe she did. Maybe she meant you, too.”

Several emotions passed across Ardbert’s face, some of them unnameable but knowable. He stopped at thoughtful. “Minfilia said my time had not yet come. That I still had a role to play.” Then he spoke as if tasting the words, letting them roll slowly across his tongue. “Not even the most valiant heroes can stand alone…” It quickly morphed into an unsettled grimace. “ No─ No, it couldn't be. There's only one hero in this room, and it is not me. I'm just a shadow, cursed to wander.”

A very soft, uncertain knock sounded at the door, and Aden turned to look over his shoulder. When he looked back, Ardbert was gone. He pushed himself to his feet with an exasperated huff, and crossed to open the door.

Outside stood the Exarch, spoken hand smoothing over his crystal arm in what looked for all the world like an anxious gesture. His lips parted slightly with a soft sound of surprise, as if he hadn’t expected the door to open, and Aden found himself smiling without knowing when he’d started. The Exarch cleared his throat, hood tilting back just slightly to look up at Aden. “Forgive the intrusion, but Minfilia─that is, Ryne and the others were asking after you. Is everything all right?”

Aden hesitated for a moment, considering his reply. “Come in,” he said. It’d buy him a little time to think. “This isn’t a conversation for the hallway.” He stood aside, and then closed the door after the Exarch.

The Exarch stopped just a short distance inside the room, visibly forcing his hands to his sides rather than continuing to fidget. With the hood Aden couldn’t divine where his gaze landed, but he assumed the Exarch surveyed his surroundings as thoroughly as Aden would--if he looked for threats like Aden would, or information with which to arm himself, Aden couldn’t wager a guess. “Ryne told you what happened?”

“Thancred told me, and Y’shtola shared with me her own observations.” He hesitated, a little edge in his voice as if he meant to say something else, but merely looked up at Aden, an expectant tension in his posture.

Aden moved past him to right the stool that’d tipped over, frustrated at the plain evidence _ something _ had happened. “It happened again not a few minutes before you got here.”

“Again?” The Exarch sounded surprised, concerned… and Aden busied himself with picking up what he’d knocked off the table so he didn’t have to look at him. “And did it pass?”

For anyone _ else _ it would’ve been a foolish question. Aden made a soft sound of surprise, ears swiveling in the Exarch’s direction. Perhaps when the Exarch had healed him during their first battle against Ran’jit he’d noticed…. “For the most part.” It lingered, unpleasant but tolerable, and hopefully that’d be enough to avoid unnecessary concern.

“Then you are still in _ some _ discomfort.” The Exarch audibly released a held breath, drawing closer as Aden finished cleaning up and lost his distraction. “I would not wish to see you suffer.”

Aden turned and found him a few steps nearer, yet still a polite distance away, with both hands raised in a sort of gesture of supplication. It was a question unasked: an offer of what Aden considered a frivolous use of healing, to chase off _ pain _ rather than heal a wound. He opened his mouth to thank the Exarch, to refuse--then stopped, tail curling behind him. This man knew the most intimate part of him, had shared in it with apparent _ glee _ where others failed to keep up or turned away in fear. For a long moment Aden stood there looking at him, taking in the particular square of his shoulders and the tilt of his chin, the posture beneath implied by the drape of his robes, the little curl in the strong, elegant fingers of his spoken hand as he lowered it, and the fine play of light through the crystal one as it mirrored the motion. He idly wondered how sunlight would refract through it if intentionally angled this way or that, or moonlight for that matter, what lovely patterns it might cast against a shadow.

_ Don’t_.

“Though,” The Exarch’s voice carried only the _ faintest _ anxious strain, “I know only too well how much you have suffered on our behalf in recent days.” It sounded like an excuse--no, it sounded like he _ knew _ , somehow, how fraught Aden’s relationship with his nature was--moreso now than ever, even though he was… at peace with what the Exarch had knelt down and begged him to do moons ago. Beautiful miracles that he could _ see _ lifting the people of this world back up out of their suffering. It was worth the pain. Even if he lived with it the rest of his life, it was worth it. He’d just let this nestle in alongside the ache from Nidhogg all but shattering his spine, and the lancing _ attack _ of his Echo visions. One day it’d be old, familiar. A souvenir of a time when he’d felt more like a man than a beast, if only for a little while.

Aden’s tail twitched, and his ears shifted upward with sudden memory, that pleasant voice promising, _ You will be well cared for. _ How long had it been since he had somewhere comfortable to return home to, where he _ mattered _ in that way to someone? Warmth crept up through the spiderweb of freeze-thaw cracks in that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be, so slowly he hadn’t noticed until now. Minfilia’s words had driven a wedge into it, and it no longer contained the fine wisps of what bubbled up from beneath. “Go ahead,” he said.

_ Not yet. _ Gauntleted hands spread across that cold, heavy stone and pressed _ hard _.

The Exarch’s relieved smile pushed back, and he gestured towards the stool Aden had righted. “If you would.” He sat, because he knew this routine well; blunt force healing worked well at range, but the fine manipulation of targeting pain proved easier in close quarters. Aden curled his tail around and over his thigh. On the table the Great Serpent made a little noise and coiled up on itself, watching the Exarch warily. The Exarch raised his hands, shook his sleeves out a little, and pressed his fingers gently to Aden’s temples. The fingers of his spoken hand were calloused with the tells of a half dozen different weapons, and the tip of Aden’s tail twitched at that, wondering what the whole hand might feel like--if he could read the Exarch’s skills in the wear of his skin. The fingers of his crystal hand were just slightly cool, the facets worn smooth in an equally telling way. 

“I have no right to impose upon you further.” The Exarch said. “Nevertheless, I must ask one thing of you.” Aden made a soft, curious sound in response, ears flicking up in his direction to signal his attention, and gaze following shortly after. No matter how he peered up into that hood he saw only shadows, and thought it must be a keen glamour indeed. “That you survive this, no matter what,” the Exarch continued, voice full to bursting with gentle urgency. “When the dust settles, you must return to your world. For the battles to come and the wars yet unwon.” He spoke with such a depth of emotion that he _ plainly _ meant something else, something he could not voice--something Aden knew by now. He’d said it in every deed and every little expression, in the way he always gave Aden his full attention, as if for just a moment no one else in the world existed.

_You’re not _**_ready_** _for this._

Healing magic prickled at the edge of his senses, soft and gentle unlike the brutal hammer of battlefield or operating room healing. So close, and with such subtle work, he could make out the three components he’d sensed before as they joined in. Cold crystal was that of the Tower, the power he held in his right hand, which if Aden focused on it he could hear the high ringing and low hum of the great structure, forever seared into his memory from his exploration what felt like ages ago. Sunset-warmth belonged to the man, the power he held in his left hand, snatches of sensory memory and distant harmonies. _ Together _ they made that third impression in the aether, their combination the thrum of ancient power. That made a strange sort of sense, because what was the Tower but a marvelous battery without a will to wield it? Regardless, that trio of sensations washed over him and reminded him of the unlooked for aid in Holminster Switch. Aden’s breath caught, and his eyes closed at the memory of it in Laxan Loft. 

He’d stood at death’s door, at the very _ edge _ of what his body could take, pain _ finally _ no longer an ally--only to be jerked back from that precipice on a wave of sensation, pain and relief all at once, and the disturbing knowledge that the Exarch somehow held deeply intimate knowledge of his body. And yet he had used none of this boundless power or knowledge for ill--no, he asked Aden instead for a beautiful miracle, fought alongside him when possible, otherwise did the things no one else could, and kept safe this sanctuary. He used that knowledge to appear at all the right times, to ply Aden’s needs and desires--but only appropriate ones, never anything forward or untowards, never anything demanding.

Aden sank into the complexities of that aether as the magic chased the pain away, and for the first time in a very, very long time, felt _ safe_.

_ Oh, hells. _ So much pressure finally hurt in a way no magic could touch, and it was the only thing keeping this from getting _ worse_.

“And you?” Aden asked, his own voice a little throatier than he expected. “When the last Lightwarden is slain, will your work be done?” He opened his eyes and gazed up into that darkness, searching not for an identity--he knew this man who hid his face, this familiar stranger, all the important parts of him at least--but for any sign he was right.

The Exarch’s smile softened, and his fingers unconsciously shifted further forward. “Yes, I believe it will. Once the tyranny of light is ended, the people of the Crystarium will be safe, and the future that must be shall come to pass.” His sweet voice lightened, a little breathy. “That should about do it, I think?” His fingers began to withdraw.

The magic faded, and Aden reached up to clasp one hand over the Exarch’s spoken hand. A little spike of adrenaline followed, the faintest blush of fear--because what if he was wrong? What if this wasn’t what it felt like, merely his own twisted mind and his own neglected spirit projecting? Was this a beastly thing to want, or the desire of a man? “Stay.” His voice wavered, rough, a little needier than he intended. The Exarch’s smile fell and his lips parted, a soft, uncertain sound escaping him as for one single, solitary instant, his fingers tightened under Aden’s hand, gently tangling in his hair, and his crystalline thumb brushed a half-circle against his temple, on the sensitive skin where one of the dampeners usually sat.

It was enough.

_ Are you _ ** _listening?_**

“Ah--” His hands jerked away suddenly, spoken hand wrapping around crystalline wrist. “My apologies--” The Exarch took an unsteady step back, another, then a steadier one, and Aden unconsciously reached after him--only for a second before he caught himself and balled that hand into a fist, dropped it to his knee. “The final Lightwarden is all that stands between us and victory.” The Exarch visibly composed himself with that steady pillar of what must needs be done, and something _ broke _a little in Aden--perhaps he was yet a tool and nothing more, a weapon. If so he didn’t want to know, he wanted to keep pretending under this hand that wielded him so gently. “There is still much we must do to prepare, but for now, I will see if there is aught that may remedy the strange affliction which plagues you.”

“I’m sorry,” Aden said. If he’d fucked up their--_ gods, _ could he think the word about a living person?-- _ friendship-- _ that hurt more than any pressure, the names carved across that stone full of fire--he’d never forgive himself. “You didn’t do anything wrong--that was all me.” But the words tasted foul as they spilled past his lips, it hadn’t _ felt _ wrong--it’d been the most _ right _ thing he’d felt in years, broken and thin as it was seeping up from the fine cracks in that heavy stone.

“I'll not keep you from your rest any longer,” the Exarch continued, as if he’d said nothing at all. He reached the door perfectly composed, and Aden _ knew _ with absolute certainty--if there’d been anything there, there wasn’t now. “Take as much time as you like.”

And then he was gone, leaving Aden alone in a resounding, empty silence.

“_Scree? _”

“_Shit.” _He braced his elbows against his knees and settled his head in his hands, throat suddenly tight, shaking as adrenaline fled him.

_ Indeed _ , that voice so like his own said, _ we’re fucked _.

“I’m an idiot.” Aden rubbed his hands across his face and looked up at the door. His skin still tingled where the Exarch had touched him, and where he’d touched back. 

_ Always_. The Great Serpent uncoiled and wriggled across the table, stopping at Aden’s shoulder, where it bumped its head against him.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to feel that any more,” he turned, shaking, and picked up the wriggly ball of scales, let it climb up into his jacket again, “not like that.” The warm swell of it yet rested in his breast, bright and pressing at the bounds of his rib cage, wrapped in terrible doubt.

_ I told you I can’t keep this up forever. But when I said find hands that will heal you of these wounds--that wasn’t what I meant. _

“How, then,” his voice grew rough with emotion barely restrained. He felt worn to his bones, newly exhausted by his outburst. “Why should anyone--as a friend or family or otherwise--if I can’t--”

_ Let them care for you. _ That voice so like his own softened, the harsh, offensive edge bleeding out of it. _ They know. They may not know the particulars, but they know--and they don’t expect anything from you. So let them. Take a few days, let them shoulder your burdens, pretend you’re resting from what happened in Malikah’s Well, and we’ll do what we can to shore things up. But this is temporary--you have to let them help you. _

“And what about him?” Aden let one hand fall to dangle over his knee, and with the other reached up to stroke over the Great Serpent’s smooth, dry scales. “Am I just seeing what I want to see? What do I do, if he--”

_ Him, too_. Fray sounded almost wistful. _ He obviously wants to take care of us, and we think--we don’t know. Maybe. Let him be close, if he wants. But be less fucking desperate. _

Aden laughed, an ugly, broken sound, short and hollow. _ Desperate_. Was he? Well, it’d been a satisfactory reminder not to reach for things like this lest he lose them, either in true loss or in the shattering of illusions. And yet he could not banish that warmth.

_ Together_.

Aden knew exactly what Minfilia had meant, and he feared it as much as he _ desperately _craved it.

* * *

The Exarch’s steps only slowed on the next floor down, and he paused, heart still hammering in its cage of crystal. His crystal hand gripped the railing, and his tail _ ached _ to twitch with irritation where he kept it bound up. He lifted his spoken hand to his breast, held it against the place where his treacherous heart lay, and released a shaky breath.

What cruel god had cursed him, to put the thing he had once desired most within his grasp _ now _ , when he could not reach out for it without risking _ everything? _ And he nearly had, weak as he was. The resolve of a century all but crumbled under the weight of that slow blink, mismatched eyes glimmering up at him, and the soft, pleading, _ stay. _ He had so foolishly convinced himself moons ago he could _ express _ his love to Aden in some way that might yet permit him to do what needed doing, provide him a refuge in which to heal. Now he realized he merely set the stage to turn the final phase of his plan into a blow against Aden’s already battered heart. So much better had he remained distant and mysterious, to let Aden _ suffer _and think he took advantage like everyone else. Crystal tightened around the railing so hard it squealed like metal over slate.

Shifting to look out over the atrium below, he wondered--did Aden see in him once more that mirror? Suffused with power, broken under the weight of responsibility, _ driven _ by need? He had seen that quiet, uncertain young man in there, the one he thought long gone. And for a moment G’raha, long dead and buried, had clawed at the soil of his grave, desperate to reach out to his old friend, the man he had loved and lost before realizing.

His skin still tingled where he had touched Aden, and where Aden had touched him in return. He pressed that sensation to his heart, and he closed his eyes. The damage was as good as done, and he would deal a devastating blow to his old friend. To the man he loved. A man so desperately lonely he reached out even to this shambling mockery of aether and flesh.

All he could do now was prepare the way for the healing that must come after.

It took all his will to walk calmly back to the Tower and hold back his tears until he sat alone in the Umbilicus. He withdrew from his many papers that old report with its crystallographs of the Scions dead where they lay, where this had all started. He flipped to the page where Aden stared up at the sky, eyes dull and pale, the little furrows under his fingers the only sign of struggle. A grim but sure reminder of his determination.

Aden must live, at any cost.


	16. What Should Never Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aden mends the cracks in that cold, heavy stone, and the Exarch resolves on how to spend the time left to him. The Scions at last have a long due revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can yell at me on twitter [@AStormcalled](https://twitter.com/AStormcalled) or tumblr [@Dellebecque](https://dellebecque.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thank you to the delightful [Sorin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorin) for beta reading this chapter!

Aden knew he’d passed from troubled dreams to Echo vision when a tightness seized his chest. In the detached manner of one paralyzed in sleep he felt his body buck, his breath hitch--and around the twin thoughts  _ at least I’m already laying down _ and  _ no one is here if it gets bad _ he sank into the observational meditation he had drilled into himself. So he settled in, alarm dim and distant that the words on the page before him were familiar, surprise ignored as he realized that unlike usual he was not an observer in this vision but in the flesh of a participant.

_ No, this isn’t right. _

The voice was familiar, like something half-forgotten. He felt ears twitch on his head, suddenly alert after spending so long absorbed in a copy of  _ Heavensward _ . An explosion sounded nearby, and they pinned back, tail tensing.

_ It would need to be later. After the liberation of Ala Mhigo, perhaps… _

Another voice sounded, and the man whose flesh he inhabited looked up to two familiar, incongruous visions--Biggs, or his spitting image, and the inside of Edmont’s study. Both the man and the room had seen better days. Biggs’--or whoever he was--words were clearer than the man, but his voice was… not as familiar. 

_ Very well. Where to next, then? _

They argued--or not so much  _ argued _ as… not-Biggs proclaimed doom and the man whose eyes Aden saw through made protestations in vain. Bits of the building rained down on them. He stood, and Aden felt the weary ache of a body that’d been seated for a long time, but  _ strength _ , too. Not so much as he himself, but… it gave him some idea of what this individual might be  _ built _ like, at least. The voice still niggled at him, something familiar, something he should  _ remember _ .

_ Have faith, my friend: we  _ will _ find him…. _

Aden woke disoriented, chest and back both aching fiercely, barely coordinated--so unlike his usual rising in the morning. No light shone through the window, but he knew his way around the suite well enough by now to grope half-asleep for a notebook and a pen, and he scribbled out his observations in a barely legible scrawl. A puzzle for himself for the morning. He fell asleep on his side in bed, pen still to paper and ink slowly oozing out in a blot on the last line.

* * *

_ Like a father to her. _

Those words rang in his head all day, resounding, echoing infinitely. Even in the midst of combat down through Malikah's Well, only pausing in the frantic spark of panic when he'd dropped his blade and caught Aden mid-collapse. He'd looked up when Ryne knelt down and hesitantly took Aden's hand, watched fear and desperation take root behind her lovely blue eyes, and it all but tore his heart in half. He knew that look so well; the twins each wore it any time something happened to the other… and increasingly when anything happened to Aden. 

_ You're family. How else would I feel? _

He wasn't ready for this. Oh, he'd been doing it for years now, effectively, but that was trying--and mostly failing--to nurse some sense of vitality out of an emotionally battered girl. He had some experience at that, being something of a mess himself. But raising a child… it wasn't the same as disaster recovery. These thoughts haunted him throughout the rest of the day, distracted him while debriefing the Exarch, kept him staring at the ceiling well into the night. By morning, Thancred decided he needed some advice. 

He only knew one man well enough to ask who was also suited enough to the task to offer more than empty platitudes. Which was how he found himself following a guardsman up to the Ocular once more, right after breakfast. 

"Good morning, Thancred." The Exarch turned that perpetually sly little smile on him as the guard exited. "Did you have something additional to report?"

"No." Thancred crossed his arms, taking a couple of stiff steps into comfortable conversation distance. The crystal floor rang under his boots. "I had hoped to speak with you on a personal matter."

A split second of  _ something  _ crossed the Exarch's expression, not lingering long enough for Thancred to catch. "I will attempt to assist you in whatever way I am able, but I fear you may find my advice dated."

Thancred spared him a small smile, only half-felt. The Exarch's oddly self-deprecating humor and allusions to his age were nothing new, but only a small piece of the puzzle Thancred had tried and failed to put together years ago. "I think few are quite so well suited as yourself." He took a few restless steps to the side before he realized he was pacing. "How did you do it?" Thancred's voice softened, gaze directed at some ornamentation on the wall--it didn't matter what, because he wasn't  _ looking  _ at it. "How did you raise Lyna?"

The Exarch did  _ not  _ compose himself immediately after that. He made a very soft little sound of surprise, barely audible. So Thancred took a deep breath and continued. "Up until now I've been… I suppose raising Ryne, after a fashion, but more so caring for her. I dared not do anything that might imprint upon her any impression of my hopes for her--a mistake, perhaps. Now none of that matters." He let his arms fall to his sides, and turned to regard the Exarch once more. “How did you know where to start?”

“I didn’t,” he said with a little start, a subtle jerk of his shoulders forward, and then paused, seeming to remember himself. The Exarch shifted slightly, using the motion to compose himself. “But at the time… I felt responsible. Had I been faster, or done more, or perhaps leaned on those around me, she would not have needed me. But she did, and we had few enough with the time or the resources for a child so young. In short, no one else  _ could _ have. I daresay you’ve begun from a place of knowledge much moreso than I myself did.”

“And yet you raised her, did you not?” The Exarch inclined his head in Thancred’s direction, and Thancred offered him a gesture, both palms up, that seemed to imply  _ there you have it _ . “She seems to be a fine, capable woman, with sound reasoning and a good heart. I could hardly ask for more for Ryne. How did you do it?”

For a moment the Exarch said nothing, shifting both hands to his staff. His hood tilted forward slightly, as if he were looking down at the floor between them. The eerie hum and crystalline ring of the Tower surrounded them, and for a brief moment Thancred was reminded of the juxtaposition before him: the alien strength of the Tower, and the man so beloved by the Crystarium.

“Perhaps poorly, at times.” The Exarch’s voice cut through the high ringing tone, almost startling in its gentleness. “I had no experience whatsoever with children, only my own wishes, from which I was not yet so far removed that I did not recall them… and the example of those I had once held dear.” The part of Thancred’s mind dedicated to spycraft filed away that little slip: that the Exarch had lost people came as no surprise, but that he had been  _ young _ when Lyna came into his care added a new point to a timeline Thancred had once tried very hard to puzzle out. It mattered so little now that he barely paid any mind to it, but he took note nonetheless. “Yet I knew I could not raise her in the image of another, or use her as a surrogate in any way. As you well understand, she must be her own woman.” The edge of his hood lifted slightly, his full lips drawn into a soft smile. “You already have Ryne’s trust, so we will dispense with that tale. As she grew older I strove to continue impressing upon her that I loved her unconditionally, even though she was not of my blood. Merely saying it is not sufficient, so I found ways in which to  _ demonstrate _ it. I always listened to her as if she were my equal, and when she required direction I provided it in whatever manner she seemed to need most at the time. Perhaps most difficult was determining when to let her make her own mistakes. Experience is the best teacher, but also… you cannot  _ teach _ a child how to deal with failure or to make good decisions, merely guide them. An older child especially." His crystal hand left the staff, and he gestured with it in Thancred’s direction, palm up--almost a mirror of his earlier gesture. “Lyna taught me to rely on others. I could  _ not _ do everything by myself, novice that I was, and despite their troubles the refugees that made up what would become the Crystarium set aside their burdens to aid or instruct me. Most importantly, however, this gave her a sense of community, of  _ family _ that I alone could not have provided. You seem exceptionally well positioned to offer her that with the Scions.”

All that advice seemed simultaneously a bit useless and quite sound--in his youth he might have dismissed it, but Thancred crossed his arms again, considering. He knew as a child what  _ he _ had desired most, but he had put foolish dreams that a loving parent might come sweep him off the streets behind him well before he was the equivalent age--but hadn’t one come eventually, in a way? Not loving, perhaps. He could be that, though.

_ You're family. How else would I feel? _

Thancred crossed his arms again, gaze flicking back up to the serene visage beneath that hood. “She has rather taken a shine to Aden, which surprised me. And he to her, I think. That should  _ not _ surprise me.” He heaved a sigh, closing his eyes for a moment. “I am the last person who should ask anything of him, least of all to be family to her. It would be hypocritical of me.”

“How so?” Little edges of soft concern and keen interest underlied the Exarch’s voice, things a less trained ear might not hear--he always sounded like that when Aden came up--an unwelcome thought at the moment from that part of Thancred constantly analyzing everyone around him.

"When we escaped to Il Mheg I looked around myself and found I was surrounded by children. Aden is an adult, of course, I don't mean to imply otherwise--but he's quite young.” When Thancred opened his eyes he noted a little tilt up of the Exarch’s chin, tiny lines of stress around his mouth, more signs of his attention. “I know I've never been responsible for him in the same way, but I can't shake the feeling that I treated him as I once did Minfilia. It feels much too late to make up for that now, but looking back--I could have been a better friend. A brother to him. But I made my first mistake long ago, a miscalculation, and as time went on I was so absorbed in myself and then my grief that I have not been there when he needed me.”

“Trite as it may sound, it is never too late to  _ attempt _ to make amends. I have been led to understand he can be rather taciturn, so perhaps it would be for naught. Yet it will surely be so if you make no attempt whatsoever.”

“You’re right, of course.” Thancred sighed heavily, crossing his arms once more. “And you’d assume after all these years I’d know where to begin. I suppose I have a great deal of thinking to do; thank you.”

He turned before he could catch the Exarch’s wistful smile, he did not see the satisfied glimmer in the eyes beneath the cowl, but they thought the same thing--perhaps things would turn out alright after all.

* * *

It wasn't unusual to encounter the Exarch's guests about town, and Lyna made a point to react to them as if they were anyone else she knew--she would not be seen playing favorites, well aware of the potential for accidental politics. ...With one exception, of course.

"Good morning, Minfilia." She spared the girl a warm smile as she passed her in the market.

Minfilia spun from her examination of a bakery case, hair fanning behind her. "Good morning--oh, um… it's not Minfilia any more. Please call me Ryne."

"Is it not?" Lyna's ears straightened and swiveled her direction. "Then good morning, Ryne."

Ryne looked vaguely surprised at the sound of her own name, then smiled, and returned a little curtsey. “Good morning, Lyna.”

“Lyna was not my name, either, when I first came to the Crystarium.” 

Ryne’s clear blue eyes widened. “Really? What happened?”

“I merely chose a new one, a few years after I entered the Exarch’s care.” Her smile turned a bit wry at the memory, and she inclined her head in Ryne’s direction, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. “I should not say  _ merely _ . I got it into my head that  _ Crystal Exarch _ was a made up name, and thus I would make up my own name as well.”

Ryne laughed, such a sweet, lovely sound, soft and a little uncertain. “Well, I  _ like _ Lyna,” she said. “I can’t imagine you as anyone else.”

“And Ryne suits you,” Lyna replied. “It  _ sounds _ like you.”

Ryne flushed a little at that, but before she could say anything further the twins swept up on either side of her, saying their good mornings and immediately whisking her into some business or other--and fixing her problem of indecisiveness with the baker as they each got something different and split them with each other. Lyna smiled, watching them go--how dreadful that this wretched war made soldiers of children, but how wonderful that they had one another.

“I must admit,” Lyna’s ears turned at the familiar/unfamiliar voice behind her, body following quickly, to find Y’shtola’s unseeing gaze fixed in the vague direction of the children, “it warms my heart to see her finally herself.”

“Though she has not made the Crystarium home in some time, it is still a pleasure to see her smile so freely,” Lyna answered, tone polite but clipped--Y’shtola had never been on the best of terms with the Exarch, and thus Lyna regarded her with wariness. “Good morning.”

Y’shtola’s gaze didn’t quite meet hers, always slightly off but uncannily close. “Have you a few moments to spare, Captain? I would speak with you.”

“For now, yes.”

“Walk with me, please.” Y’shtola gestured in the direction of the nearest door to the outside.

They made their way through the growing bustle of morning crowds, Lyna carefully regulating her step to remain at a polite speaking distance from the much shorter mystel. Blessedly Y’shtola wasted no time on idle chatter. “'Tis likely a strange and uncomfortable topic, so I shall get straight to the point. What can you tell me of the Exarch's previous suitors?"

Only a great measure of self control prevented Lyna's gait from faltering, but she failed to disguise her surprise at the question. She didn't quite compose herself, but immediately replied, "I had thought you above gossip."

"I have a reason." Y’shtola reached out for a railing, hand hovering for a moment before she found it, as they crossed into the Wandering Stairs. "Humor me, please."

“To what end do you ask?” Lyna said, clasping her arms behind her as she walked. This was Y’shtola, whom she held in suspicion but also understood to be matter of fact, like herself--she knew, but she needed the woman to admit it. “Is this about Aden?”

“Indeed.” One of Y’shtola’s brows arched delicately, and they passed through a set of double doors out into the gardens that fed the Crystarium, the morning sun still low and the dew yet sparkling on the leaves. “I had hoped not to be indelicate on the matter out of respect for you, but I shall put my concerns plainly. Let it be known,” she raised one slender hand in a gesture of staying, “that I do not expect an unbiased answer. I know full well what you are to the Exarch, and ‘tis why I ask you in particular. You know him better than most, even if I expect you to extoll his virtues. I mistrust him, as you well know, and Aden… is a far more delicate soul than he seems. He has been through much and more that is not my place to elaborate on, but in matters of the heart especially.. I suspect the Exarch of manipulating him,” Lyna’s ears twitch, a shudder running up them as Y’shtola continued, “and I seek to protect him. However….” Something vaguely pained entered Y’shtola’s expression, a little pinch in the cast of her eyes. “I wish to hear from someone who has known the Exarch much longer than I and thinks on him charitably what to make of this. As I know you to be forthright and trustworthy, you seem the natural choice.”

Lyna’s fingers dug into her forearms behind her back at the thought that her grandfather would engage in such a thing.  _ Manipulating _ someone in such a fashion…. “He has had no suitors in all the time I have been with him,” she answered, tone carefully measured to remain neutral. Y’shtola had come to her first, after all. There was some measure of sense in her behavior. “Nor have I heard of any before, though many have made inquiries as to his availability. Few dare risk the question in person; his secrecy and his power intimidate them, presumably. But he is wed to the Crystarium, to the service of her people.”

Y’shtola came to a stop near one of the garden beds and looked up at Lyna, not quite making eye contact, “‘Tis plain he cares for the people, yes, and I thought it exceptionally strange when I first realized their association seems more than professional courtesy. Aden has been here only a handful of moons, and the Exarch seems above such concerns.”

Every fiber of Lyna’s being longed to spill her revelation, to lay before Y’shtola the knowledge that the Exarch had been in love with Aden long before anyone in the Crystarium knew the man existed--how she could not say, but she  _ knew _ it, that he was the hero from the stories she had grown up on, the one she had always wished would come and save them and make her grandfather happy, the hero by whose example she had grown first to fight and then to lead. Perhaps Y’shtola might know the answers, from that same strange place all the Exarch’s guests claimed to be, but if she asked Lyna  _ this _ , then she did not know. She would have no answers. “I had thought so too,” Lyna answered--only a little bit of untruth. She had seen the longing in her grandfather’s eyes, the loneliness glittering in oft-concealed scarlet, and only come to understand it as an adult when such glimpses and the stories preceding them were long past. “I understand--” and she did, if only in the most academic, detached sense possible, “--your concern for your comrade. Were I in your position, perhaps I would ask the same questions. I assure you that while the Exarch may occasionally be devious in his service to the Crystarium, he would not resort to such tactics. I cannot even speak to the validity of the rumors--if he is indeed courting Aden,” that felt so strange on her tongue, to say her grandfather was  _ courting _ someone _ ,  _ “and not merely offering him companionship, or perhaps overindulgent in his gratitude for the man’s assistance, then it must come from some genuine feeling. He is not the sort of man to indulge in fancy for personal gain.”

Y’shtola crossed her arms, lips slightly pursed. “That is… reassuring, I suppose. I still worry that it is unhealthy for Aden. There are factors the Exarch may not have considered, if he is privy to them at all.”

“Perhaps you should speak to him yourself.” Lyna inclined her head slightly in Y’shtola’s direction. “He will surely set your mind at ease if the rumors are merely rumors, and likely welcome your counsel if they are true.”

“Perhaps I shall.” Y’shtola uncrossed her arms. “Thank you, regardless, for your honesty and willingness to entertain my concerns.”

Y’shtola turned to go, and Lyna released a long-held breath of agitation. She watched the mystel, looking for any sign or hint of her intentions in the sway of her skirts and the cant of her shoulders. Whatever was to come, Lyna knew one thing: she would brook no interference in her grandfather’s attempt to snatch some fleeting joy from the jaws of despair.

* * *

Aden read the blotchy scribbles a third time, eyes catching on that last phrase, largely obscured by ink, the dreadful  _ weakness _ it laid bare. He sneered, in disdain, in anger, in  _ pain _ . He was done looking for that bright mirror long-lost, and he would not entertain half-dreamed fictions in distant lands. He ripped the page from the notebook, crumpling it in his hand as he seethed at all the traitorous cracks and the unwelcome warmth in that heavy stone where his heart should be.

“Fray,” he murmured. He felt what lie beneath that stone constrict at the thought of what he meant to do, but he ignored it. It shouldn’t exist. They’d made a bargain.

_ I’m here. _

“What do I need to do?”

_ Clear your schedule _ , the shade replied in his own voice, invisible but felt, a gauntleted hand closing over his shoulder.  _ And think of some bloody work we can do. Somewhere you can let me loose. _

“I’ve already got something in mind.”

* * *

Dread certainty preoccupied Aden as Sul Oul described the use of the dispelling dust for the wards. He only half-listened, zoning in and out while the damning conversation he’d had with the twins played over and over in his mind. Extending his hand and  _ asking  _ for help was not in his nature. He had suffered alone when he desperately needed it, and those who had extended their hands instead had all been ripped from his life. Surely to them it would seem a simple, innocent task, but it wasn’t the  _ task _ , it was bringing them in. It was letting himself--

_ Oh, shut up _ .

Aden’s ears flicked, and he looked up, scowling--though not at Sul Oul or Granson. Sul Oul noticed, though, and paused mid-sentence, looking up at him--then past him, leaning a little to the side. “Oh, where are my manners--I did not realize you had brought a third person along.”

Aden’s ears flicked  _ back _ , straining for sound as he turned. He heard  _ nothing _ , but after a moment Sul Oul added, “Come, my dear, do not be shy!”

Ryne peeked out from behind a mushroom, eyes glittering in the dim light and the curtain of her hair draped around her shoulder. Then she stepped out, hands clasped behind her, slowly made her way up to them. Aden’s ears flicked towards Granson when he scoffed, but he didn’t say anything.

Ryne drew up to Aden’s side in silence, looking hopefully up at him. “I followed you,” she said, answering the question he didn’t need to ask. “I overheard you ask the twins for help, and I thought… considering… um….” She looked past him to Granson, then to Sul Oul, and back up to Aden. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

_ She’ll make this harder. _

“I’m not alone,” Aden said flatly, and gestured to Granson.

“You know what I mean,” she hissed under her breath, and her expression  _ broke _ a little, a moment of unrestrained concern. “I can help.  _ Please _ .”

“Alright.” A little swell of pride curled the corners of Aden’s mouth. At her age he hadn’t had the guts to run so far and sue for himself so fervently, and she’d been through so much more than he had by then--he was proud beyond compare. She might never shed the scars of her time in Eulmore or the bow of her back under Minfilia’s burden, but she showed so much more fight and more vigor--perhaps she had a real chance to come by her confidence and her own voice before others drowned it out. The chances he hadn’t had. “Like usual, then.”

The ability to  _ choose for herself _ .

“Are you sure about this?” Granson said behind him, and Aden turned to look at him. He didn’t look haughty and distant any more, merely concerned. “She’s just a kid.”

“She’s way more than just a kid.” Aden made a placating gesture with one hand. “I’ve watched her face off with some of the most fearsome beasts around, and she knows how to use those daggers.”

Granson hesitated just a moment, gaze searching Aden’s. Finally he said, “If you’re sure,” with a nod. He looked past Aden to Ryne. “Good to have you aboard.”

“Thank you!” The relief in her voice sounded bright as flowers. She stepped up, perhaps a bit stiffly, and offered Granson her hand. “I’m Ryne. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

_ And why aren’t you worried about her the way you worry about the others? She’s even younger than the twins, and less experienced. _

_...Why aren’t we worried about _**_him_** _for that matter?_

Aden’s tail stilled, his hands clenched, and he exhaled heavily through his nose. None of the others seemed to notice as Sul Oul facilitated their awkward introductions. Fray didn’t mean anyone  _ present _ , he knew with the same certainty as if the thought had come from his own mind--because it had.

_ You see too much of who you were in her--you’re more worried about her  _ ** _never living_ ** _ than about losing her. Almost like you have a second chance. If she succeeds where you failed, then you prove something to yourself? Or is she a  _ ** _distraction_ ** _ , bait you mean to throw in front of your allies to keep them from looking too carefully at you? So they  _ ** _think_ ** _ we’re not as  _ ** _fucked up_ ** _ as we are? _

Aden’s ears flicked, gaze distant though he still looked in the direction of the others. The shade had caught him in the perfect situation to berate him--he’d look mad if he replied.

_ But  _ ** _him_ ** _ ….  _ ** _He’s_ ** _ different, isn’t  _ ** _he_ ** _ .  _ Aden closed his eyes, and for a moment he was back in his room in the Pendants, staring at the closed door while parts of him that had no right to ache any more  _ writhed _ agonizingly in his chest.  _ You see a different kind of kindred spirit in  _ ** _him_ ** _ . Power, and pain, and duty…. The hope we’ve found someone just as  _ ** _fucked up_ ** _ as we are. _

Aden's fists tightened such that the metal in his gauntlets squeaked.  _ Well, we already  _ ** _had_ ** _ but… he killed himself when you gave him what he wanted, rather than let you  _ ** _take_ ** _ what you wanted. Not that I'm complaining. I'd much rather you see your reflection in a saint than a monster.  _

_ ...But if you think that's what we are… all we're good for… and after what happened last night... _

The shade fell silent as they left Pla Enni, the gentle unease of deep consideration roiling inside that fine edge of dark power. Fray didn't  _ need _ to finish--it was why they were here. He couldn't do what needed doing with this effervescent warmth bubbling up from something that should be forever lost. It was a distraction. A  _ torture.  _ Last night had reminded him, galvanized him--he blinked, and behind his eyelids he saw the closed door, the echoing silence of the Exarch's departure. He could not  _ be  _ a man, with these soft needs and gentle desires, and be what the Exarch needed him to be.

If the monster, the  _ weapon of light  _ was what the Exarch needed, he would have it, ready at hand, unbending in resolve. And he would not ache in that way again, what lie beneath that stone safely buried. It was the best way to give voice to what he felt, not pathetically reaching out and crumbling under the simplest, most innocent touch.

_ This is temporary,  _ Fray reminded him. Aden didn't argue; everything was temporary. 

It only needed to last until he knew--and it was such a dreadful, painful thought that he could scarcely bear to give it light of day and could not  _ wait _ until they were done with this renewing task--that he would not see the Exarch again. 

Aden paused on a ridge overlooking the water, and gazed back towards the distant peak of the Crystal Tower. He could scarcely imagine that world.

* * *

"...and just as I was about to bring my daggers down a brilliant light surrounded me, and lifted me up into the air!" Ryne climbed up into her chair, hands up and palms flat. "And there was so much aether I could taste it. I knew he was about to do  _ something. _ " The twins sat rapt across from her, Alisaie leaned over her plate of chips with an arm curled protectively around them, yet she didn't seem to notice Alphinaud very carefully reaching for one as Ryne continued. "Then a  _ blackness _ burst through," she slapped her palms together to make a loud  _ clap _ , "and ran down the light like ink all about me. Something struck the outside of it, and it rang like a chime, but the darkness stayed where it was."

"Where did the darkness come from?" Alisaie asked, a chip stalled halfway to her mouth.

"It was something Aden did," Ryne said. "The whole time it felt like he was standing right next to me, even though I was up in the air." She placed a hand against her chest, a familiar little gesture, but this time like she held something precious in. "When it faded away the light was gone, and I was still in the air right behind the sin eater. So I leaned forward, and held my daggers out," she drew them and mimed the position, hunching over the table slightly, “and caught myself on his shoulders! He started thrashing around trying to throw me off, but I held on! And then both Aden and Granson came at him at once and while he blocked them I had a moment to pull one of my daggers out--” again she mimed the motion, “--and put it right in his neck!” She sheathed her daggers and turned around, pulling the long curtain of her hair aside to indicate where she’d stabbed the sin eater. “Right there,” she pointed with one hand, then let her hair go and turned back around. “And he fell to the ground!” She jumped down from her chair with a bit of a wobble, shoulders squared proudly but the duck of her head a little shy. 

“How did you know that would work?” Alphinaud said, trying very hard to conceal the stolen chip in his hand.

“I didn’t,” she said, sitting down and smoothing out her dress. “Well, not for certain. I read it in a book once, that scholars thought the reason sin eaters look like things that use aether--people and animals--even though they’re not the same thing any more, is that they use the same channels for aether through the body. So I thought if that’s true, maybe this would work.”

“Very clever.” Ryne turned in her seat, and the twins looked up to see Y’shtola entering their usual private room at the Wandering Stairs. “‘Twas a risk but one that paid off, it seems. Well done.” Y’shtola rounded the table to her seat carrying a rather fancy looking drink in a stemmed glass. Ryne ducked her head, blushing a little.

“Well, our errand went fine as well,” Alphinaud said, regaining Ryne’s attention. “Aden’s young friend is quite astute; we had little to teach him but technique.”

“And how to avoid the sharp end of a wolverine.” Alisaie apparently decided she was done with the chips and finally pushed them in Alphinaud’s direction.

“Alas, mine own task proved less than fruitful.” Ryne twisted in her seat again to see Urianger  _ slouching _ through the door before he all but dropped into an empty seat next to her. Thancred followed behind, standing between them, and he set one hand on the back of Ryne’s chair, the other on the back of Urianger’s. “She is beyond all assistance.”

“We didn’t even get past  _ good morning _ ,” Thancred added, jerking his head in the direction of the door and the bar beyond it. “Aden’s dwarven  _ associate _ had nothing for us but drunken insults.”

“All our entreaties that we came on master Dellebecque’s behalf proved in vain.” Urianger slumped back in the chair, looking up at Thancred behind him. “She is insufferable.”

“Speaking of,” Thancred glanced around the room as if double checking, “where is he?”

“Oh, he said he had something to take care of.” Ryne fidgeted a little in her seat, looking around the room as well, but for something else--an expected reaction.

“He is  _ supposed _ to be  _ resting _ ,” Y’shtola did not disappoint, exasperation plain in her voice as she lifted her glass to her lips, “not taking on every odd job he can find.”

“I’ll go look for him.” Alphinaud pushed back from the table, but as he rose Y’shtola reached out and waved the hand not holding her drink in his direction, beckoning him to sit back down.

“We need to talk,” she said. “Alisaie, would you mind looking for him? I have a threat to make good on if you can bring him here.”

“ _ Gladly _ .” She pushed back as Alphinaud sat down, adjusted her sword belt as she made her way to the door. The others looked to Y’shtola expectantly, but she merely took another long sip of her drink.

Alisaie’s footfalls faded outside the door before Y’shtola finished, pale gaze scanning the room for something none of them could see. “Ryne, you may wish to step out as well. I apologize, but this is a rather sensitive topic.”

She opened her mouth as if she meant to challenge them, but Thancred’s hand slipped from the back of her chair to her shoulder and squeezed. “It’ll be alright,” he said. “I think I know what this is about, and you wouldn’t like to hear it.” She glanced from him to Urianger, who nodded, and so she rose from her chair and made for the door without protest.

With Ryne gone, Y'shtola began. "I am certain all of you have noticed the changes in Aden's behavior and his declining health. We must plan for potential consequences, and devise a way to convince him to take his ease should all go according to plan." She placed her glass on the table and threaded her fingers together before her. "There is also the matter of the rumors about his involvement with the Exarch. From my own observations I am convinced enough, but do any of you have concrete confirmation?"

"He doesn't keep confidence with anyone that I am aware of." Thancred made a little sweeping gesture with one hand. "But folks around town seem completely convinced of it."

"He hasn't said anything about it," Alphinaud confirmed, voice strangely flat. "But I would not wager against there being something between them."

"'Twould be foolish to ignore the evidence of our own eyes and ears." Y'shtola settled forward onto her elbows as she spoke. "I propose that we intervene before the situation grows more serious. Aden is quite plainly in an unstable state, and we will not remain here in perpetuity. In addition I have reason to suspect the Exarch may be manipula--"

" _ This _ is precisely why he has not confided in any of us." Alphinaud rose from his seat, hands braced against the table, voice firm and hard in an unfamiliar way but not raised. "I understand," he began after a moment, "that few of you have seen aught but the result of his grief, and terrible as it is I  _ implore you _ : leave this be. Let him have what happiness he can.”

“Would that matters were so simple, master Alphinaud.” Urianger still slouched tiredly in his seat, but there seemed something more than the fatigue he had carried in through the door, some great weight upon his shoulders. “I assure you all that we do, we do out of affection for our companion and an earnest desire to see him remain hale.”

Alphinaud glanced around the room, worrying at his bottom lip for just a second before he asked, “Have any of you ever seen him truly happy?” The other scions looked to each other as if for assistance. “ _ Any _ of you?”

“No,” Thancred answered. “Only… well, the way he gets during a fight.” Urianger shook his head, frowning deeply.

“Never,” Y’shtola agreed, only then turning back to face Alphinaud, her pale eyes wide.

“I have,” Alphinaud said, voice tense. “I’ve seen more of him than anyone else here. I saw how he changed, for good and then for ill. I assure you he has considered every difficulty that might cross your mind, and then some. Don’t take it from him out of misguided concern. Let him have what little happiness he can for as long as he can have it.”

"I agree with Alphinaud." Wood creaked under Thancred's hand, still braced on the back of Urianger's chair. "Y'shtola, I know you have misgivings about the Exarch's secrecy, and you're right to hold him in suspicion. I won't begrudge you that; however, I have never known him to be anything but generous and supportive towards myself and Ryne. I  _ haven't  _ been spying on Aden," he pointedly looked at her, "but I have made some observations myself, kept an ear to the ground as it were--I don't think he has any ill intentions."

Y'shtola regarded Thancred curiously, running a finger along the stem of her glass. "I am worried he is being deliberately  _ distracted  _ from how serious his condition is. There stands a very real possibility we could lose him, or that he cannot contain the Light, and then where will we be?"

"I prithee, mistress Y'shtola--"

"You're  _ hardly  _ any better." She shot Urianger a scathing look. "You claim to have an answer yet you will not share it with us. I  _ trust _ you Urianger, and it seems more and more likely that should the worst come to pass we must fall back on your mystery solution."

"Shtola," Thancred barked. Her nose scrunched up, ears pointed, and her tail fluffed behind her. "Stop. We all regret that we haven't been there for him, but this is  _ not _ how we make up for it." He raised his free hand in a fist, pointing downward with his index finger and jabbing it at the table. " _ This _ is how we make things  _ worse _ . By ignoring his input, by treating him like a child, or a--a  _ tool. _ " Y'shtola sat back in her chair, alarm plain on her face at Thancred's outburst. "Alphinaud is right. None of us were there, and none of us have  _ ever _ been there--who were you fighting for as we fled the Bloody Banquet?" Y'shtola didn't answer, ears pinning back not in anger but  _ shame. _ Thancred straightened, looking away. "If we mean to mend our fences with him, then this stops here."

Silence hung between them, each but Alphinaud with their head bowed or eyes downcast in contemplation, ruminating on their behavior towards the man they all pushed forward as savior of Eorzea.

"Before you joined us," Alphinaud's voice broke that silence with almost surgical precision, "we fought to defend Holminster Switch from a sin eater attack. The Exarch fought alongside us there, and kept pace with Aden in a way I've not seen since our struggles during the Dragonsong War. They fought like they'd known each other for a long time, longer than any of us have known him." Slowly they all looked up at him, eyes intent or ears perked. "We defeated our first Lightwarden, and in the aftermath he  _ begged  _ Aden for his aid--but he made it a choice. He  _ asked. _ At every meeting he has requested Aden's presence and paid most careful mind to his words. If you wish to know his intentions, I think you should look there--and if you wish to make amends as well."

"What fools we've been," Y'shtola murmured. Thancred nodded his agreement. Between them Urianger frowned, looking away.

* * *

“Oh, um--good afternoon, Aden.”

He spared Thiuna a glance, a smile and a nod, and continued his careful work on the lute. Today he’d made immense progress, and it started to  _ feel _ correct in his hands--though it’d been so long he could scarcely remember the weight of the thing. Most importantly he could hold it without holding a knife to his own heart, look on it without seeing the laughing face of an old friend. He only felt that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be, a comforting and full sort of  _ nothing _ . Instead of focusing on his personal agony he could focus on how  _ good _ it felt to be working with his hands. He could enjoy it, even if some part of him still hated that it had been broken in the first place.

“You’re looking… well.”

“<blip> Analyzing…. <blip> analyzing… <blip> Scan complete. No metallic, ceramic, or aetherochemic armors detected. Aden! You’re practically naked!”

“Noddy! Don’t be rude!”

He spared a grin at that, and put down his tools long enough to pick at the front of his shirt with two fingers. “Looks like clothes to me.” Noddy was right, though, he  _ felt _ naked in his work clothes, and without his armor at hand… though his spear leaned against one end of the bench. “But I admit it feels as weird as it likely looks.”

Thiuna smiled, leaning against the bench next to him, eyes softening and her ears tipping forward just slightly. “I’m glad to see you finally feel at home here.”

Aden just nodded at her, forced a smile. He  _ had _ . Then he’d realized it could never be home, he couldn’t stay, as beautiful as this place was and as kind as all the people were. He had responsibilities back on the Source, so when his work here was done…. Well, it was  _ better _ that he didn’t feel so attached any more. He could leave this place with the satisfaction of a job well done rather than the bittersweet longing of leaving behind something he cared about. 

Or someone. 

"Here," he picked up the lute and spun it over right side up, offering it to her. "Should be ready to string it by evening."

She took the instrument with reverence, arm cradling the body and fingers wrapped around the elegant neck, falling into place over the frets. "It's beautiful," she murmured, long lashes low over her eyes. "As beautiful as I remember. Only someone who truly loves what this instrument represents could do this."

He said nothing, glad of her appreciation, possessed of no desire to mar it with the truth of that cold, heavy stone and the near-indifference that had permitted him to finally complete his work.

* * *

Evening fell, the blanket of night rich velvet and the stars a scattering of pale light across the heavens. The Exarch looked out from his perch atop the empty watchtower, disappointed, relieved, and anxious all at once. His heart beat ferociously against its partial cage of crystal, looking out at the city for what would surely be one of the last times. Each building and tree and thoroughfare held a lifetime of memories, and the next a lifetime more. He wished fervently to see it under the full moon one last time, glass and crystal ablaze with cold fire, but time would not prove so kind. It never had.

But it was not for the city that his heart beat so. The Exarch stood upon the precipice of two cliffs; one he had so long prepared to fling himself from that yawning abyss almost felt like an old friend; and the other… was the soft, low, pleading voice of an old friend, the press of a strong, calloused hand over his.  _ Stay _ .

He closed his eyes and breathed deep the cool, sweet night air, and thanked silently for the hundredth time his old friend’s efforts. He saw both the longing in those mismatched eyes, and their lifeless stare forever caught in a crystallograph. He could not stay without losing him; he could not throw himself from that cliff without breaking his heart, at least a little.

Many,  _ many _ nights ago he had thought to himself perhaps he could love Aden in a way that permitted him to do what he needed to do, and what a dreadful, selfish act it had proven. Had he kept things professional,  _ cordial _ between them and not thought he could comfort Aden and mend his spirit--but it was in the past. Everything now, was in the past, with only the tiniest sliver of future left to him. All he could do now was prepare the way, and serve as the instrument of fate. And here at the last he found… he missed poor G’raha Tia, dead and gone these many years. He missed his old friend, and wished nothing more than to ease his wounded heart in the simplest of ways, throw back his hood and cry,  _ I’m here! You have not lost me, you need not see my ghost around every corner! _ But he could not, for surely that would prove even  _ worse _ than what he had already done.

Here at the last he found that he did not want to go to his death, his hard-won rest, without letting Aden know… that the  _ Crystal Exarch _ wished just as much to reach out as he had, had been reaching out without realizing it this whole time. His hands balled into fists at his sides and he  _ shook _ in helpless anger at himself. He’d never stood a chance. 

Would that his traitorous heart had turned to crystal, too, that he need not feel it beat so.


	17. Where The Heart Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt for the Kholusian Lightwarden begins, and to enact a foolish plan the Exarch must help unearth a heart of stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to [Sorin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorin) for beta reading, to [Hon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smollander) for encouraging me to feed the brain gremlin that inspired the last scene, and all of YOU for reading!
> 
> You can yell at me on twitter [@AStormcalled](https://twitter.com/AStormcalled) or tumblr [@Dellebecque](https://dellebecque.tumblr.com).

They stood before Eulmore as he had moons ago with Alphinaud, and  _ finally _ Aden received an answer for the question he had asked in this very spot. The simmering anticipation of a coming battle boiled over to righteous anger, an old, familiar friend he was  _ glad _ to feel again after so long struggling. Anger had been his refuge once, and now as then it bore a direction: he would tear this city apart stone by stone if necessary, free its people from the horror they’d unwittingly reveled in, and serve as the instrument of the Exarch’s design.

“--desperate souls out there killing themselves to escape turning! This is unforgivable! An atrocity!”

“These sin eaters… what if they are not simply ‘rounded up’?” Alphinaud turned his head in Aden’s direction, catching his eye. “Do you remember what we were told when first we came to the city? ‘Many enter, but none leave…’.”

“The singer,” Aden answered through clenched teeth. His hands balled into fists at his sides, eager to feel the weight of his spear.

Alphinaud nodded, and looked away from him, up at the city. “Let us put an end to it. To this ‘paradise’ build upon the bones of the poor. Vauthry’s deeds are beyond justification. Beyond forgiveness. Evil.”

“I was already going to kill him,” Aden slowly unclenching his fists.  _ Soon _ . This wasn’t the right place; these weren’t the right targets. Precision would be the difference between now and then.

Thancred gave them a last minute assessment, and Aden merely spared him an ear, half-listening while every muscle in his body tensed with the anticipation of the resistance of putting his spear through something. “Now, my friend. If you would be so good as to lead the charge.”

“ _ With pleasure. _ ”

Matters proved far less simple, of course. Vauthry’s voice boomed overhead as they approached and the common folk rushed to obey, throwing themselves at the intruders. They were easy enough to subdue; Aden didn’t even draw his spear, falling back instead on Nadine’s self-defense training from his childhood. Few of their assailants were trained, so he caught or blocked strikes easily, disarmed them and bore them to the ground while his more arcane-inclined companions plied magic to put them out more safely than a knock to the head. When an opening presented itself he dashed on towards guard--soldiers, yes, but he wondered how many of them would be appalled by the truth. They were no less worthy of mercy. “Alphinaud,” Aden barked. “Shield them!”

“On it!” 

He didn’t look back, unslinging his spear and charging up the stairs at the second wave. He saw the tell-tale shimmer of an arcanist’s magic around the soldiers then redirected his momentum  _ upwards _ , twisting around at the height of the jump to land spear first  _ between _ the soldiers. Cobbles shattered under the blow, the entire top step caved in, and it knocked the soldiers back several yalms. It was enough distance and time for Aden to flip to his feet and rip his spear from the ground in one fluid motion, running forward, and for Alphinaud to catch up as Alisaie took up the rear guard.

The two jesters who had so infuriated him before met them inside, and now they infuriated him for a _different_ reason. Were they, too, thralls? Would this mad tyrant throw _every_ _gods damned citizen of the city_ at him? Perhaps even now he was hurriedly turning them to sin eaters above, and Aden couldn’t fathom what he’d face. It stoked the fire within him, rage bright and hot and the song rising in his blood--tinged with Nidhogg's notes, forever seared into his soul.

Alphinaud left him on the stairs, holding yet another vulnerable position. Aden entered the aetheryte plaza alone, spear in hand. He found it eerily empty, ears flicking for any sign of occupation as he ran--but he felt a hollow, songless power before he sighted Ran’jit.

“You shall find my master in his chamber…” Ran’jit stood before the lift entrance, something like a scythe in hand and the dragon nowhere to be seen. “But only should you kill me this day--and you will not.”

The song in his blood surged with the need to  _ fight _ , to exert his dominance, and this time he would  _ relish _ it. There was no one here to see, after all. “You’re no thrall,” Aden said matter-of-factly. It was plain in the man’s stance, his air of casual non-concern

“I uphold Lord Vauthry’s ideas of my own volition,” Ran’jit answered. He offered no reaction as Aden took a few steps to the left, circling, sizing him up. ”Man is an inherently flawed creature. In his vain pursuit of righteousness, he but sows the seeds of future conflict. Thus have I chosen to place my hopes upon he who has transcended men. Upon he who is unbound by the vagaries of conscience.”

“Submitting to the will of another does not absolve you of guilt for what you do at their command.” Aden  _ growled _ . He’d had this argument at least a dozen times in Ishgard, with people far more deserving of his respect, and it never failed to set him on edge.

“Enough talk. I am a soldier, and you are my enemy.” Ran’jit shifted his grip on his weapon, moving into an unfamiliar stance with it. “Come! Let us settle this once and for all!”

“ _ Finally _ . I didn’t come here to talk philosophy anyroad.” Aden let the song suffuse him, the seething notes of his memory of Nidhogg’s song woven in alongside his own. Recalling their first fight, he gave himself over to that power immediately, sheathing himself in scales of aether even as he launched himself at Ran’jit. Ran'jit caught his spear, but even as he did so the pure aether of dragon’s breath erupted along its length, searing Ran'jit's palms and washing over his form. Ran’jit batted him away, and Aden righted himself to rebound off one of the pillars flanking the doorway, marble and plaster cracking beneath his feet.

Ranj’it leapt away as Aden landed where he’d been an instant before, a spiderweb of cracks radiating out from the epicenter of his blow. “Ever since I submitted to my master's authority, I have been naught but a weapon.”

Aden felt the pang of those words keenly, like a dagger at his breast, and he snarled as Ran’jit swept his weapon wide, the brutal force of it translated into a wave of aether. Aden vaulted up and over at the last moment, landing at Ran’jit’s side. “You  _ think _ , and you  _ decide _ to execute his commands, knowing the consequences.” He landed his first glancing blow, one of the fanned tines on his spear scoring a line through the hide of Ran’jit’s armor. “You  _ feel _ , and you can’t stand the pain, can you? Losing Minfilia over and over, and you  _ gave up _ .” Ran’jit blocked his next blow, shunting his spear aside such that they wound up shoulder to shoulder, but Aden hooked his weapon and elbowed him viciously in the face. “Your  _ hear _ the cries of those oppressed by your master--a spear doesn’t know blood from oil.  _ You’re a man _ , you bastard, not a  _ fucking weapon! _ ”

Ran’jit broke Aden’s hold on his spear and staggered back a step before he regained his footing and sought distance once more. The Echo thrummed in warning beneath the heavy buzz of a Lightwarden nearby. “I exist only to destroy. And destroy you I will!” Lines of lightning crackled across the floor, striking the aetheryte and arcing across the metal inlay. The charge of it surged up through Aden's armor before he cleared the floor in another jump. Last time the dragon had done this, and though he sensed it he still did not  _ see _ it.

“You still talk too much! Where’s the damn dragon, you mouthy fuck?” Ran’jit caught his spear once more and batted him aside, but Aden anticipated it even as the Echo beat a warning. He’d seen enough of Ran’jit’s tactics, heard enough from Thancred’s fight, and now  _ instinct _ prevailed. Ran’jit’s concentration on the spell broke when he blocked Aden, so he could land safely--Ran’jit was there, too, and slashed up with his weapon. Metal screamed as it impacted Aden’s abdomen, scraping along his armor, and Aden let it, jamming his spear through Ran’jit’s shoulder. There wasn’t enough strength in the blow to cave in drachenmaille, but he sure as hells  _ felt _ it through the armor and the padding. His spear pierced Ran’jit’s armor more shallowly than it  _ should _ for leather, more like living dragonhide.  _ It’s the armor. It’s-- _ “It’s a construct.” Aden landed, pulling his spear back hastily to block another blow. “It’s a fucking  _ aetheric construct _ . Like a godsdamned  _ carbuncle _ , or a  _ porxie _ .” Shock overrode his instinct for a moment at the realization someone had  _ emulated _ draconic power, and why there’d been no song. Ran’jit threw him back, electricity crackling across his weapon and along Aden’s armor. Aden's legs folded under him, limbs spasming with a whip-sharp lance of pain through his lower back. He kept his spear in hand unlike their previous battle, and while he struggled to rise a shimmering vision of the missing Gukumatz appeared in quadruplicate next to Ran’jit. Someone somewhere had  _ seen _ or  _ interacted _ with a real dragon, or maybe even a sufficiently powerful dragoon, in order to mimic that power so closely--but with a closed heart. They hadn’t heard the song.

The song in his blood roared,  _ offended _ at this mockery, and Aden gave into it, closing his eyes and breathing out a nimbus of cold blue aether. He shoved up to his feet, staggering as his legs remembered how to work before the inhuman power surged through him and braced him. “We don’t have a  _ real _ dragon here, but I’m the next best thing.” He sheathed himself in scales of aether, armed his spear with fangs of force, and when he opened his eyes on Ran’jit they glowed from within. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

This time when Aden leapt upon Ran’jit the scythe shattered under the force of the blow, and amidst the flying shards Ran'jit caught the fanned tines of Aden's spear. Ran’jit held them, jaw set and eyes wide, visibly straining for the briefest second before the spear ripped through his gloves into his hands, then plunged for his heart. He slammed into the ground with the weight of the blow, marble shattering and metal twisting around him as cold blue aether shot through him into the floor and shone back up through the cracks. Ran’jit’s lips parted with the force of blood rocketing up through his mouth, only for it to freeze on his lips as aether chased through him.

Aden stood there for a moment, still braced on his spear as the crescendo of the song subsided. Ran’jit’s eyes tightened and he reached out, murmuring, “Ah...there you are...my precious girls…” Aden made himself watch as Ran’jit’s hands fell back to the floor and the light left his eyes. Silence reigned after, broken only by the hum of the aetheryte and the low drone of the Echo’s warning, and his own harsh breathing as he came down from his battle high.

“ _ Fuck _ .” Aden ripped his spear free and staggered away, cast his gaze towards the ceiling. “I was never a weapon, was I?” He didn’t know who he asked--Hydaelyn, perhaps, whose cause he supposedly championed without direct intent and whose exhortation he had repeated, for whom the question had burned in his heart ever since Raktika-- _ am I a thrall?  _ Or the man he’d fallen for and thought this cold, hard thing would satisfy, the man who had  _ asked _ again and again, never demanded. “Just a fucking idiot.” Or himself.

He  _ railed _ against the idea that he was under anyone’s sway, that his fate was not his own to master, and it was better not to  _ think  _ about it, to let others guide him, to go along rather than fight. Loss cut too keenly. That he’d not been strong enough to hold onto those he’d loved despite all this devastating power, that it had happened again and again seemingly without fail, so it was better to be cold and  _ feel  _ only those things that could not hurt him. Now that he’d finally  _ heard _ his own words from the lips of another twisted, misguided soul he knew how foolish he’d been. Had laying that cold, heavy stone been any different from Ran’jit’s submission? Either way he couldn’t lift it now, he didn’t have the time to deal with the consequences.

He didn’t know if he’d have the strength to, after.

By the time the Scions entered the plaza Ran’jit lay collapsed on the ground, a grotesque hole through his abdomen and too much of his insides on the outside, blood and viscera running down through shattered marble and twisted metal. Aden had composed himself, though blood spattered the front of his drachenmaille. These skills were for fighting dragons, not men, and in the end he had only been a man.

As Aden himself was.

Together they rode the lift up to Vauthry’s chamber, and Aden held his righteous anger tight while Alphinaud pleaded reason with the master of the city. He knew it wouldn’t come, but this was Alphinaud’s right--he had struggled here and felt keenly the plight of the city’s most vulnerable. All his senses hypertuned, on alert for any sign of threat from Vauthry or any approaching threat over the low buzz of the Echo--one ear flicked back at Ryne’s exclamation. “The Warden─it's not just a sin eater. It's a man!”

That explained the oppressive air, why just  _ walking into the room _ felt foul. He’d not knowingly encountered a Lightwarden until after, so of  _ course _ the Echo’s warning drone had been entirely unfamiliar. Aden growled as Vauthry finally turned and spoke, pulling his spear, and Ryne’s “Stop him!” was all he needed. Aden lunged forward, Thancred on his heels--

Vauthry threw back his head and  _ screeched _ , the sound so high and loud it felt like a metal rod jammed through Aden’s ears. They pinned back reflexively, and he set his jaw, trying to struggle through. They were so close, he couldn’t--

Thancred collapsed, and he couldn’t hear anything from the others over the keening. Something warm pooled in his ears, and Aden growled again. He’d fought through worse, and  _ nothing _ would deny him this--but he could not grasp for the fine edge of dark power that would turn pain into strength, and by the time he got moving Vauthry was over the balcony. Aden reached it moments later and hopped up onto the railing, rapidly calculating the trajectory of a jump. The keening faded with distance, and he felt something drool down along the side of his head. He reached up with one hand and drew back bloody fingers.

Aden looked back, the others still struggling to their feet behind him. He’d be  _ alone _ if he went. Maybe that’d be for the best.

He’d have no way of knowing if  _ they _ were safe.

“Aden?” Several minutes passed before the others stumbled over to him, and Alphinaud approached first. “Your ears are bleeding…”

“I know.” He just pointed out at the horizon, beyond the cliff. “Look.”

“What in the heavens!?”

Alisaie drew up to them, followed by the others, and Aden explained what he’d seen. They all stood on the balcony and stared for a long moment, each silently contemplating the magnitude of the revelations of the past several minutes, and the challenge that now stood before them.

“Here.” Y’shtola broke the silence, moving quietly to his side and offering him a kerchief from the folds of her dress. 

Aden wiped at the blood as best he could while Alphinaud pleaded for the city. His case made, Alphinaud looked to Aden--and when he looked around Aden found  _ everyone _ looking to him.

“Well, let’s get to it,” Aden said, still dabbing at one ear. “City isn’t going to pick itself back up.”

* * *

“--treatin’ me like your  _ personal clotheshorse _ , like some--some--”

Aden stopped fastening up his armored jacket and held out his hand, very careful not to move his head as Urianger continued healing his ears. “ _ Beautiful branch. _ ” Feo Ul crossed their arms, hovering midair, wings flicking furiously. “You saw all the blood.”

“Hose yourself off! Or give everyone a fright! It’d do them good.” They twirled around, stopping with their back to him.

“Look at me.” Aden’s voice dropped low, serious and a little flat. “ _ Really _ look at me.” Urianger had seen what happened in Malikkah’s Well, certainly knew how close Aden teetered to the edge of another episode, and yet he still couldn’t admit it and accept whatever came after. He trusted Feo Ul to see.

They did, peering hard, and resignedly hovered over to his outstretched hand, folding up their legs beneath them as they landed. “ _ Lovely sapling, have you far to go? _ ”

“Probably,” he said, unwilling to give more detail--Urianger knew the tongue of the fae folk. “And I’ll probably call on you again ere I arrive.”

They sighed and their wings flicked once, twice, then they rose from his palm. “My dear, sweet sapling, what marvelous trouble you are.” They flitted around his head once, inspecting Urianger’s work, then stopped in front of Aden’s face far too close for comfort. He couldn’t move yet, so all he could do was try not to focus on them and go cross eyed. “Call on me as many times as you need. I’ll be watching.” They leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead before darting off and disappearing in a puff of shimmering light.

* * *

As soon as the words, “Perhaps thou shouldst take thine ease for a time?” left Urianger’s lips Aden knew why. Relief accompanied the little spike of fear in him. He could probably help with the repairs, but Urianger was right. He’d need everything he had.

He settled down in the shade of one of the buildings, idly watching the comings and goings of the townsfolk and the Scions. Everyone took direction from Chai-Nuzz readily enough, seemingly glad to have a task to distract them from the horrors they’d awakened from. Distraction was the only way to gain enough distance and time to heal.

For some things there was never enough distance or time. He rested a hand against his chest, as if he could feel that cold, heavy stone, and the solace it provided. He didn’t  _ want _ to lift it, this daze of muted emotion comfortable and familiar by now. What would he find there after all this time? What if--

“Would you look at that? The citizens of Eulmore engaging in what can only be described as “manual labor.” Who would have thought it possible?”

Aden’s ears flicked in agitation as he cast about for something to throw, yet nothing lay in easy reach. He remained seated, looking up as Emet-Selch approached.

“Do you know the most reliable way to deal with those who stubbornly refuse to see reason?” The Ascian phrased it like a question, but didn’t wait for Aden’s response. “You conquer them─crush them under heel. Such was the trusted method of Allag, and one still favored by Garlemald.” It almost seemed he merely spoke aloud, to no one at all, watching the work with some degree of pleasure and dismay-- _ false/honest _ the Echo whispered, kicking into overdrive. Aden scowled, but not at Emet-Selch for once. Why couldn’t this particular ability work this well in more  _ useful _ situations? “But conquest is the easy part. The true challenge begins once the dust has settled─quenching the glowing embers of animosity and maintaining a semblance of peace. This requires the conqueror to treat the conquered with dignity, and the conquered to let bygones be bygones. A difficult feat to achieve.” Emet-Selch finally turned his gaze to Aden. “But you have achieved just that...to my considerable surprise.”

“We didn’t fucking  _ conquer _ them,” Aden muttered, but he had little drive to argue. Even his anger seemed strangely muted out here in the light.

Emet-Selch inclined his head slightly, looking down at Aden with all the annoyance of a disappointed instructor. “It's a compliment. Take it.”

Aden just glared up at him, and Emet-Selch shook his head, shrugging as he looked back at the workers. Aden watched him keenly, scrutinizing his attention, the  _ way _ in which he watched everyone else. He’d been willing to humor the Ascian until their last conversation, in which he’d admitted he didn’t consider them  _ people _ . Aden had challenged him and received no answer, merely a sad look. There was that little hint of sorrow again, perhaps longing, and Aden wondered how much of it was show and how much honesty born of disdain for any witnesses.

"Ahh, the vibrant energy that fills the air when like-minded souls gather. To think back on that time before time fair brings a tear to the eye." Emet-Selch glanced down at him, obviously looking for a reaction. Aden flicked an ear, a deliberate, measured motion, much slower than reflex. "What? You thought ancient beings like us incapable of crying?"

"I don't think you're genuinely nostalgic watching a group you don't consider  _ people  _ come together for a common cause." Aden crossed his arms, tilting his chin up slightly. "You can drop the pretense."

Emet-Selch turned a very different expression on him, eyes narrowing, the corner of his mouth quivering, and for a second Aden though the Ascian might punch him--then it passed, and he slouched a little more, exhaled heavily. “You may think what you wish, but it is no pretense. Even the littlest things can spark memory--and rest assured that if your heart can be broken, then so can mine.”

“I’ve had enough of this.” Aden pushed himself to his feet and snatched up his spear, slinging it. He turned, stalking over towards the workers.

“Amaurot, they called it.” Aden stopped mid-step. Something about that name demanded his attention. His ears flicked back; it felt like nails running over that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be, catching on every groove. “Never was a city more magnificent.” He turned, and found Emet-Selch still looking in the  _ direction _ of the workers, gaze distant--he saw the city in his mind, surely. “From the humblest streets to the highest spires, she fairly gleamed….”

“...Is that where your friend was from, too?” Aden took a step back in spite of himself, compelled by curiosity both academic and practical. “...Odysseus, was that his name?”

Emet-Selch smiled, gaze still distant. “Indeed it was.” His shoulder shook once with the barest hint of a laugh. “You were listening. I find myself pleasantly surprised.” He looked down at Aden, meeting his gaze and searching for something. Aden wondered for a moment if he, too, possessed a power that let him see into the hearts of others, and what he looked for. What he saw.

“Tell me about it,” Aden said. “Amaurot.” It felt strange and right in his mouth at once. He wasn’t sure he liked that.

He did, if only briefly, and Aden didn’t doubt for a second that he spoke of it in the rosiest of terms--whether out of genuine longing or great distance in time he couldn’t be certain. Regardless, Aden listened, because even in the most biased of stories he might find some truth. Emet-Selch trailed off, his slouch shifting, and his gaze lifted to Aden, wistful again. “Not that you would remember any of this.”

Aden’s ears perked forward and his tail curled behind him. “What?”

“Never mind.” Emet-Selch waved dismissively, suddenly he was all business again, drawing up out of his slouch slightly. “The point is: the world of old was a far better place than what we have now. I believe you would like it, having witnessed the things you have.”

“No, what did you--”

“Remember, you are of the Source. Unlike the halfmen here, you stand only to gain.”  _ Halfmen _ . Aden’s hands balled into fists at his sides as he remembered himself. He tried very hard not to snarl, recalling his agreement with the Exarch what seemed like an age ago. “Should you survive the remaining calamities, you will become our equal. A complete existence in a complete world.”

_ I don’t need to be your equal to  _ kill you _ .  _ Instead he seethed in silence--any sound he uttered would be a battle cry, and this was the wrong place, the wrong time--there were too many potential casualties, for one. Instead he let Emet-Selch go, glaring daggers at his retreating from.

“Ah, there was one thing I had meant to ask.” Emet-Selch turned back as Aden had before, only a few paces away. If he made anything of Aden’s glare he didn’t show it. “How well do you know the Exarch? Has he ever deigned to show you what hides beneath the cowl?”

“What does it matter?” Aden managed, pretending he was on the floor of the House of Lords and trying to argue calmly. It worked for the moment. 

“I take that as a no? Not even to you? How very interesting…” With Emet-Selch’s sing-song tone Aden didn’t need the Echo to tell him he meant to sow seeds of doubt. “I shall enjoy working out what it means. Until next time.”

This time Aden watched him leave until he was well out of sight, that old familiar anger settling comfortably inside him. The noise behind him increased, and Aden’s ears flicked back before he turned just in time to watch the talos rise to their feet.

“It’s alive.” Aden’s tail flicked at the familiar voice, and he wondered how long Ardbert had been there, how much his focus on Emet-Selch had drowned out the strange tethered feeling. “I don't know if you remember, but when we first met in this world, I was all but spent. I never thought to wonder why until now.”

Aden’s anger slowly oozed out of him at the sight of the workers celebrating the talos’ first jerky motions. “I think it all just got to be too much.” He knew that feeling all too well, and finally glanced over. “The guilt of causing the Flood... Knowing everyone hated me... But the worst thing was the solitude.” While Ardbert continued Aden looked down, knowing his own isolation was nothing compared to Ardbert’s--and shouldn’t he endure it, if it made everything easier? “Time wears you down, aye...but solitude eats away at you. It was this close to finishing me off. But as bad as it got, and as empty as I felt...I can't even begin to imagine what it must be like for Emet-Selch.”

The twins ran up and bade him join them on the inaugural ride, and Aden nodded his agreement. They ran off ahead of him, but Aden hesitated, looking back to Ardbert, who smiled warmly at him. “All of which is a long way of saying: don't make a choice that leaves you alone. I know you think it’s for the best, but it’ll wear you down--maybe it already has. Nothing is worth that─especially not eternity.”

“I already made that choice.” Aden turned, putting his back to the ladder. “I thought others drove me to it--maybe they did, but it was still my  _ choice _ .”

“They’re still here, aren’t they?” Ardbert shrugged at him. “It’s not too late.”

“How much did you see when the Exarch came to my room?” Shame roiled sickly in his stomach at the memory. No matter how distant and dim the feelings that’d led him to do what he’d done were now, the damage was done.

“Seemed private.” How perfectly non-committal. “But I’ve seen enough of the aftermath. Whatever happened, it can’t be as bad as you think, and he seems like a reasonable enough fellow.” Ardbert inclined his head in the direction of the twins. Aden looked over his shoulder and found them waving to him from the lift. “They’re waiting. They  _ want _ you with them, Aden.”

Anxiety ran sharp through all his fingers and up his throat, a tingling pressure. Suddenly he wasn’t taking the first ride up a tickety lift, but something  _ far _ more intimidating. “Come with us,” he murmured, before he thought about it too much. Just feeling the shade beside him would be one person on his side. One person who could see him shaking on the inside.

How long until he lost them, like everyone else?

He couldn’t cut himself off. He couldn’t keep living the way he had, not if he wanted to avoid Ran’jit’s fate.

_ Together _ .

Aden took a shaky breath, and turned back to the lift. Ardbert fell into step at his shoulder, invisible to all but him.

* * *

Things got a little more familiar up top, scouting ahead and splitting up to be alone. It put a few more sin eaters under his spear, gave him a little time to think--but not alone. He knew Ardbert was there even when he wasn’t looking at the shade, a comforting presence.

When he met back up with Alisaie at the base of the volcano they discussed the terrain, their options--it was all very tactical and professional and… normal. It eased some of his anxiety. This was a place Aden could occupy to her--to everyone. If they could start here, perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.

“Y'shtola is right to be worried, but flying may be our only choice after all.”

Aden opened his mouth to reply but a distinct  _ whirr  _ caught his ear and he looked up just as a flight of drones passed overhead. “Those are Allagan.” Indeed, their construction was more elegant and overwrought than modern Garlean imitations, and they glowed from within. “Do you know who brought them?”

Urianger called out to them, and Aden turned from watching the ascent of the drones. Whatever Urianger said fell on deaf ears as Aden tensed, tail curling stiffly behind him.

The Exarch stood at Urianger’s side with his usual mysterious smile. His public face; gentle, but unknowable. Aden watched him keenly for any hint of acknowledgement, listened for any indication in his voice of something amiss. When he bade them watch the drones’ approach Aden did so, and relaxed somewhat. Professional he could handle. It was better than the alternative.

“Talk to him,” Ardbert whispered into his ear. “Not right now, obviously. When you have a chance.” Aden clenched his fists, and watched as the drones plummeted from the sky. It seemed a fitting omen--he knew how this would end.

* * *

One by one each of the Scions volunteered to do the work they once would’ve asked Aden to do, running about contacting others. At first he watched them in private awe, expression carefully schooled, and then with growing dismay. It seemed as always the universe conspired against him, until finally only the Exarch and the Chais remained. They made the trip to Amity in relative silence, the Chais filling the air with enough noise for the both of them. 

At last they stood alone while Chai-Nuzz made his apologies, listening at a distance. Anticipation grew in him until it burst out across Aden’s lips, shamed. “I owe you an apology for what happened the other night.” The Exarch’s hood tilted in his direction, a mysterious smile his only reaction. “You’ve been kind, and you deserve better. I’m sorry.”

“You seem ill-used to kindness,” the Exarch said, voice careful and soft. “And I find that regrettable.” He turned to face Aden fully, that gentle smile unchanged. “Perhaps ‘tis I who owe you the apology--for letting fear get the better of me. I should have stayed and spoken to you then, rather than leave so abruptly.”

Aden shook his head. “You don’t have to look for something to blame yourself for, it’s fine. I was out of line, and I know that.” He crossed his arms, gloved fingers gripping tightly to ward off the foolish desire to hug himself, to hold in all the horrible pressure that filled him. That cold, heavy stone where his heart should be remained blessedly intact, but it didn’t hold back  _ everything _ . “It won’t happen again.”

The Exarch’s smile finally broke, full lips thinning, and he looked away. Aden couldn’t decide if he was deep in thought or upset. They stood like that for a long moment, Aden’s oath hanging between them. “I value your companionship,” the Exarch finally ventured, looking back, and Aden felt as so many times before the weight of the Exarch’s full attention on him, as if he were the only thing in the world. By now it was familiar, and it settled comfortably on his shoulders. “I would not lose it over a misunderstanding.”

Aden released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and nodded. “Thank you.”

The Exarch’s lips curled up again in a warm smile, different from his gentle, knowing look. Aden imagined that were his eyes visible it’d reach them, bright and glittering, whatever they looked like. “Shall we see what the Chais require of us, my friend?”

“Yeah.”

_ Friend _ . For once he could think that word without fear.

* * *

They chatted all the way to Tomra, slowly warming back up until by the time they stood at the gates Aden's certainty he'd  _ fucked up  _ had unknotted itself and he breathed freely again. Maybe he had, but it was going to be alright. If anything now he felt shame over making so much of the Exarch's reaction, since had someone done that to  _ him  _ he would likely have turned and left without a word out of sheer surprise. It'd been so long since he'd expressed anything so raw and private to anyone, and in his weakness with that terrible warmth it'd seemed like so much more.

Tomra wasn't quite what he'd expected, and the Exarch gave voice to the same surprise and curiosity Aden felt. "I shall enjoy not having to crane my neck for a change," was  _ wholly _ unexpected.

Aden turned his head to look at the Exarch while the joke caught up to him. He gave a soft huff of a laugh, surprised, and grinned broadly as a sly smile bloomed across the Exarch's face. Before he managed any witty retort one of the dwarves approached them, and Aden repeated the greeting Giott had taught him. On finding the chief welcomed them personally they explained their plight. 

Soon enough Aden paced at the base of one of the cliffs while the locals prepared their trial grounds, slingshot in hand and a bag of shot at his hip. "What's this got to do with mining?"

"I haven't the faintest clue," the Exarch answered, watching him pace. Aden felt that weight of attention on him, but they were alone and what else was there to contemplate?

"You know," Aden looked down at the slingshot in his hand, "I've never used one of these before. Guns, crossbows, ballistae, canons, blowguns… never a slingshot."

"Not even as a child?" The Exarch moved to Aden's side and held out his hand. "May I?"

Aden handed him the slingshot. "No. Wasn't much for getting up to mischief."

"A pity, that." The Exarch dug a bullet out of the pouch without so much as a by your leave. "Never too late to make up for lost time." He paused suddenly, holding the bullet up near his chest like some prize, lips parted as if his own words had caught him off guard. It only lasted a moment before he began looking for a target, then took aim at a window ledge on the cliff face above. “‘Tis as simple as it looks.” He let loose, and the bullet whizzed into the edge of a flowerpot, taking out the tiniest chip of stone and a solitary blossom overhanging the edge. 

Aden whistled, impressed. “You’ve got good aim.”

The Exarch caught the falling flower, grinning at Aden all the while. “I wasn’t born with a staff in hand, you know.” He returned the slingshot, and while Aden was occupied with it leaned in and tucked the flower into the lapel of his armored jacket. “There,” he said, “for luck. Not that you will require it.”

“Come on up!” one of the dwarves shouted from above. Aden glanced up to see her beckoning him, and by the time he looked back the Exarch was already on his way to rejoin Xamott. He tried not to think too much about that cheeky look as he made his way up.

* * *

Aden and the Exarch dove into the first wave of sin eaters as one. It wasn’t quite the same as Holminster, with the Exarch wielding his magics. Still, they fell into those same patterns easily enough. He didn’t worry about where the Exarch’s spells might land, or if he was in the way--he simply knew he  _ wouldn’t _ be. When they finished Aden shook plastery white ichor from his spear as Korutt sang their praises.

“It may interest you to know that Aden is a great hero in the land whence he hails.” Aden glanced up, finally satisfied with the state of his spear. “Some would say the greatest.”

“Really? Oh, you must have some stories to tell, Aden!”

He arched a brow at the Exarch, inclining his head slightly while the Exarch continued. “That he does. Tales to impress and inspire you in turn. By all means, have him regale you with a few once our work is done.”

They fell together more quickly against the next group they encountered. The song slowly rose in Aden’s blood, none of the scathing notes of Nidhogg’s rage surfacing, only his own. He felt lighter than he had in a long time even as each blow took a little more effort than the last. The last sin eater fell too quickly, leaving the ache in Aden's fingers to meet  _ resistance _ unsatisfied, but they had business to be about.

The Exarch seemed willing to entertain Korutt's anxious chatter, so Aden took point, one ear tuned on them. He wondered what this region had looked like before the Light, and how it would fare with so little ground cover when rain returned. 

“Well, it looks like you've been doing this for years to me!” 

“...Is that so? I...I shall take that as a compliment.” The Exarch’s voice hitched slightly.

“Um...did I say the wrong thing?”

“Not at all. Your words are most heartening. Indeed, I feel like a young man again.” Aden’s ears flicked curiously as he spared a glance back. Something about that phrasing nagged at him.

“You talk as if you're old! How long have you two known each other, anyway?”

The Exarch hesitated just long enough to make it apparent the response discomfited him, but before Aden could throw his weight behind it more sin eaters descended upon them. They dispatched them quickly enough, and as they moved on it seemed Korutt had forgotten his question. Aden hadn’t, but this was neither the time nor the place.

Just before the crown of a low ridge more sin eaters swooped down to surround their group. Aden leapt into the thick of them, the Exarch’s carefully placed spells firing so close he felt the aether in tingling washes across his face. With so many enemies the Echo made a rolling clamor. When the Exarch shouted, “Aden, draw them in!” he ripped his spear free and juked around a falling blade, dove beneath another winged beast and slid in at the Exarch’s side just in time for their foes to reel on him. Aden kipped up as stars rained down, white-hot and blinding. He looked away to preserve his vision and his gaze caught on the tension in the Exarch’s lips, the set of his jaw and the strain of his spoken arm. Aden deliberately took a single step away and turned to Korutt rather than face that vision of power and what other things it might conjure.

Eventually they crested the ridge and the mouth of the cave came into view--and the slough of sin eaters prowling the road just beyond the bridge. “Ah, hells.” Aden pulled his spear once more.

“I will see to Korutt,” the Exarch said. 

Aden nodded to him, then closed about half the distance to the bridge before throwing himself skyward. At the height of the jump he began compounding his momentum, converting it into aetheric force, and when one seraphic terror launched herself upward to meet him mid-air the full force of the jump shattered her shield, ripped her arm free at the shoulder, threw her to the ground. Aden landed in a shower of feathers, the shockwave he’d intended to create dissipated by her impact.

The Exarch joined him moments later, remaining carefully at the edge of the fray with their charge. Together they conducted a slow dance, carefully turning the eaters’ attention away from the cavern and maneuvering Korutt closer. None of the eaters lasted long between spear and spell, and when the last one fell Aden flicked the ichor from his spear. None of their battles had been particularly hard-fought, and while it left Aden unsatisfied he was pleased all the same.

The ground shook violently and Aden’s head jerked up, ears pinning back at the giant sin eater barrelling down the road. It loomed not quite as large either of the monstrous Lightwardens he’d faced, but certainly larger than any other bestial sin eater besides, twisted form some grotesque mimicry of a minotaur. Aden set his spear like he might against cavalry, but the beast swung one long arm wide and batted him aside. In his lighter armor the backhand winded Aden and sent him sprawling while the sin eater barrelled into Korutt and the Exarch. 

It struck Korutt on the oblique, throwing him into the cliff face beside the cave entrance, where he collapsed into a jumble of loose rock. The Exarch took the full brunt of the blow, hitting the ground just in front of the cave and rolling into shadow, staff clattering to the ground. He didn’t cry out, but the distinctive ring of crystal striking stone roused Aden from his daze. With a growl he hauled himself to his feet. He finally let the building song go, the wash of aether a cathartic release as he leapt once more. His overconfidence and inattention had led to this. The Exarch’s presence lulled him into false security, fooled him with  _ hope _ that maybe just once things might go smoothly, that  _ together _ they were safe. How foolish, to think this might simply be a pleasant walk punctuated by a bit of rousing action.

Aden didn’t indulge in the weightless moment at the height of the jump, instead bearing down with all the frustration and rage he felt at him _ self.  _ His spear sunk satisfyingly deep in the beast’s back just between the shoulders and slightly to the right of where the spine lay. It dropped to all fours and bucked dangerously, so he widened his stance and pushed, bracing himself. For a moment he entertained the idea of  _ riding _ the monster to death, a strategy he’d heard other dragoons bandy about during the end of the war--why all drachenmaille had spurs, they’d joked. Alas, he’d traded his drachenmaille for lighter stuff to better endure their potential climb, and as amusing as it might be to go bucking across the countryside the beast would wreak havoc before it tired.

It reared and Aden held fast, digging his heels in and straining against his spear. The head slipped, so he realigned his stance and jumped from the sin eater’s back. Reeling around, the sin eater looked for its attacker in every direction but up. Aden twisted to make a minor adjustment and landed again on the beast’s back, spear sinking well past the head this time. White ichor gushed out around it, splattering across the front of his armor, and the creature roared with such intensity Aden’s ears reflexively pinned. He endured, ripping his spear free and plunging it into the back of the thing’s thick neck. It flailed, and he pushed.

One great hand swung so near Aden he ducked, and he pulled his spear free for another jump--only for the eater to snatch him out of the air and slam him brutally into the ground, the Echo only beating a warning on the downswing. All his breath escaped in one loud gasp, the impact jarring through his whole body. The dampeners kicked in so hard he all but  _ tasted _ the aether cycling through them. Aden struggled to his knees and found himself facing the cave, back to the sin eater, just in time to watch the Exarch emerge from the darkness, a little scuffed but otherwise no worse for wear. The Echo  _ pounded _ , and Aden got one leg under him, hefting up his spear--

That same massive hand swept down, catching across Aden’s collarbone in front and ripping his shoulderguard free as jagged claws tore through leather and chain to skin, raking front to back. He barely felt it past adrenaline, pulling himself sideways and out from under the claws as soon as they cleared his shoulder. The Echo beat a second warning, and Aden rolled out of the way--only to find himself looking up at the Exarch, staff lifted overhead and a shimmering honeycomb of light where he held back the sin eater’s other hand “ _ Your tale will not end here! _ ”

For one instant all Aden’s fears and desires coalesced into this single point: the Exarch standing over him in defense, showing only the slightest strain at holding back this massive beast. The pang of memory came upon him, the first edge of going  _ elsewhere _ \--he snarled at his own weakness,  _ refusing _ to let loss take him. Aden leapt to his feet, spear in hand, and ducked beneath the forward edge of the Exarch’s barrier, running under the sin eater’s chest. It began to pull back, but Aden  _ jumped _ , spear aimed where a heart should be.

The sin eater’s chest caved inward with the impact, spear embedding so deep Aden had to let go when the monster toppled backwards. He waited for the thing to stop thrashing before he retrieved his spear, careful to put most of the force on his uninjured side.

Korutt stumbled out of his impromptu hiding place amidst the loose stones, dazed but otherwise well enough. The Exarch regarded Aden carefully, and though Aden could not see the man’s eyes he didn’t need to. “I’ll be alright for a minute,” he said. “Don’t even feel it yet.”

“Let us retreat into the cavern,” the Exarch reached out to place a hand on Aden’s uninjured arm as he passed, “set Korutt to his task, and then I shall see to you.”

Aden prayed that in the weight of his attention the Exarch did not see the spectre of the broken shield that’d haunted Aden’s mind and reminded him he had not feared then, either. That he did not still hear the song thrumming through Aden's blood, playing for a  _ different  _ sort of battle. He could not consider that vision of power he'd seen. He could not remember Holminster. He could not remember Laxan Loft. He could not remember that many nights ago the Exarch had lain hands on him  _ first _ . He centered himself on that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be. Perhaps he was not what he told himself, and he was wrong to hold himself apart, but now was not the time or place for adrenaline to keep singing in his veins and his heart to betray him. That could come later, when duty was done and he was well away from the Exarch. 

And yet as the Exarch and Korutt turned to make their way inside Aden crouched down to sift the crushed remains of a flower from the dirt, tucking the petals that'd previously sat proudly on his lapel safely away.

* * *

Despite the brimstone reek of the Tewel the Exarch looked out in silent awe over jeweled pools bubbling with heat and glittering crystal made motive. A fitting destination for a journey alongside Aden; it felt like the sort of place they would've visited together in their youth. He could see them now: G'raha rambling about the historical applications of whatever they stumbled across until he'd said enough to draw Aden out of his shell for his own much more succinct but no less enthusiastic lecture about it’s natural history. How he'd missed the light in his old friend's eyes.

In spite of himself, or perhaps  _ because  _ he'd sacrificed so much to become the Exarch, he'd enjoyed their journey here for much more than the challenge or standing at Aden's side. He'd reveled in keeping pace with Aden's ferocity, in flexing his own considerable but oft neglected strength. Would that young G'raha so long dead and gone could see them now. Perhaps he'd be horrified. Perhaps he'd finally be happy. 

Soon it wouldn't matter, but the high of the fight lingered in him warm and eager. Despite the weariness of his body he did not feel  _ done _ , that he had yet more battles to face--and he did, the greatest of all. Outwardly he remained serene, but inwardly he warred with himself.

Aden returned to the cavern as the invisibility enchantment faded, and the Exarch bade him follow. “The air was sweeter inside,” he said, “and we should have plenty of time to see to your wound before Korutt is finished.”

They retired some distance into the cavern, still within earshot should their charge require aid but out of sight and where the breeze from the other end of the cavern cleared the air. The Exarch sat down with his back to the wall, laying his staff aside, and gestured for Aden to sit down in front of him. Aden did so, laying his spear alongside the staff, within arm’s reach of each of them, and the Exarch tried not to think about the symbolism in that.

“Let me see it, if you would.” Aden shucked out of his armored jacket, hissing through his teeth when he straightened his shoulder, and let it drop to the side. Thick lines of blood welled up through the gambeson across his left shoulder, and he began removing it as well. After a moment of hesitation the Exarch reached out to help him peel it away.

“I’m used to this,” Aden said, softly.  _ You don’t have to help, _ silent, implied, and maybe a touch of  _ You have better things to do with your time, no one else bothers with gentleness _ . The Exarch heard it, as he heard nearly all the silent things Aden left unspoken. He’d always heard them, right from the start. It’d been what first drew him in: so much said, so little spoken.

“Should you be?” he challenged, quiet, gentle. Aden’s movement stalled just a second--a second more--two full, deep breaths worth of time, counted in the shift of Aden’s shoulders. He helped with the sleeveless shirt beneath the padding, too, so that Aden didn’t need to raise his arm directly overhead to remove it. Two wicked gashes lie beneath, bright, bloody lines front to back over his shoulder, angled towards the outside in front and in towards his neck in the back. In anyone else it would’ve been an  _ emergency _ , but the Exarch knew all too well the vaunted Warrior of Light’s resilience. The flesh around it already mottled with a hideous bruise, the imprint of the chainmaille lining of his jacket readily visible. Running his fingers delicately around it, the Exarch projected the tiniest wisp of aether into the muscle… it’d cracked his collarbone, but not truly  _ broken _ it. “It hurts quite a lot, does it not?”

Aden made a soft, flat noise deep in his throat, turning his head to the other side to look away. “Doesn’t matter.”

When the Exarch began channeling healing magic into the wound Aden relaxed. As soon as he thought the soothing sensation of the healing might be strong enough he laid the palms of his hands against bruised flesh, feeling hard muscle beneath. “It matters to me,” he murmured. Aden’s ears swiveled back, not a pin but… attention. 

“Why,” Aden asked, voice toneless in an obvious effort to disguise his feelings on the matter, his tail carefully tucked around his side and perfectly still.  _ Why do you keep doing this? _

He hesitated, concentrating on keeping his healing  _ gentle _ .  _ You’re the one I lost _ , he couldn’t say.  _ You’re more important to me than my own life and I’ll do anything to save you one instant of suffering.  _ Aden would reject such an overture instantly. His heart pounded in its half-cage of crystal. As he had told Korutt,  _ I feel like a young man again _ . If only for a moment he’d recaptured some of the daring of exploring the Tower at Aden’s side, only wiser, more capable of supporting him, and  _ fully aware he was madly in love _ . Plagued, too, by the knowledge that Aden felt at least  _ something _ in return, haunted by his pleading eyes and voice. G’raha Tia kept trying to claw free of his grave, and what loose soil it proved.

He couldn’t let the question go unanswered. He couldn’t let Aden think  _ I want you whole to use you for my own ends, like everyone else.  _ The Exarch opened his mouth to say something sagely and vague, but instead, “Because you deserve a gentler hand than fate has dealt you,” spilled over his lips, heavy with emotion. The Exarch leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the back of Aden’s head, careful of the fittings on the hood. He wished more than anything to sweep it back, to feel Aden against him, to give both of them what they’d been denied so many nights past. But that was not his to take, and  _ foolish _ beyond compare. So close to the end all his secret want swelled in his breast, the same mix of conflicting emotion that'd driven him from Aden's room, that'd guided his hands when he placed the flower, that'd lead him to accompany Aden in the first place. “I care for you,” he murmured into Aden’s hair.

Aden’s tail curled lazily over his leg, and the Exarch wished, for one weak moment, he could respond in kind. He settled instead for the pleasure of that slight weight, the unconscious twitch of comfort beating a long, slow metronome against him. The Exarch continued his steady charge of healing magic, knitting together the cracked bone and sealing the broken flesh. His magic snagged as always on the lingering damage elsewhere in Aden’s body, requiring constant focus rather than allowing it to work organically. As the wound on his shoulder required less and less energy he focused it away from healing the bruise, directing it with his spoken hand and trailing slowly down the staggered march of scars angling inwards towards Aden’s spine. He caught himself when he noticed Aden’s breath quicken, and returned his hands to Aden’s shoulders, taking a deep, steadying breath. It was a mistake, he realized with the scent of the man beneath his hands filling him--leather and blood, sweat from his exertions, but beyond that soft musk and the scent of deep woods.

“My apologies, that was… too forward of me,” he said, drawing away and lifting his hands--Aden’s shoulders rippled with a sudden surge of motion as he reached up, catching the Exarch’s hands and twining their fingers together.

“Don’t apologize,” Aden answered, voice dark and husky. He brought the Exarch’s hands back down to his shoulders, their fingers still twined together. The Exarch’s heart caught in his throat, limbs suddenly shaking.

Aden turned, untangling their fingers and reaching towards the Exarch’s face. The Exarch stilled, then pressed himself back against the wall, shying away. “Don’t--”

“I won’t,” Aden said, mismatched eyes glittering bright in the lantern light. He very carefully reached into the hood, running his fingers up the Exarch’s jaw, across the slash of crystal bisecting his cheek. The Exarch shuddered, an embarrassingly needy sound escaping him. Though certain parts of his anatomy no longer responded the way they would’ve before his transformation, he still  _ craved _ touch--the sort of touch he hadn’t known since well  _ before _ meeting Aden. Aden’s hand continued across the corner of his jaw, muscle control  _ perfect _ in avoiding so much as nudging the cowl. The Exarch’s shudder increased into full-on  _ shaking _ , anticipation and desire warring with the fear that his identity might be revealed. If everything else had gone to all hells, if his wretched heart would not permit him to spare Aden  _ this _ pain, he could at least cling to that last refuge. Aden’s face drew nearer to his, hand sliding to twine fingers into his hair, thumb sliding over where the ear would be on a hyur. Aden made a soft, curious sound high in his throat, as what that meant most certainly did  _ not _ escape his attention. He closed his eyes before ducking into the darkness of the cowl, and pressed his lips to the Exarch’s, gently but insistently.

Everything in that moment broke apart. Much as he wanted to claim otherwise, Aden had never been just a man to the Exarch. Saving him would save two worlds  _ full _ of life and joy, and  _ all  _ the people he'd ever loved. Their lives were all worth so much more than his own. Yet here on the eve of his death he had the first blush of his heart's desire--and he  _ struggled _ . How readily he'd killed G'raha Tia for the strength to become what he must, and now faced with the same trial the Exarch could not deny his own wretched heart.

He couldn’t… couldn’t deny  _ Aden _ . His lips parted, and Aden pressed that advantage. This wasn’t  _ at all _ how he’d imagined things in his earlier days when he’d still guiltily entertained these thoughts, had satisfied himself to thoughts of pressing that hard, muscular body beneath him and demonstrating his desire in the play of lips and hands until Aden  _ understood _ , until he saw himself the way G’raha saw him, until he’d laid low the Warrior of Light in the sweetest way possible and had him pliant and needy. It’d been a  _ century _ since he thought about that, and the memory combined with the tentative, questing press of Aden’s tongue past his lips drew a needy sound from him. He forgot himself; he  _ remembered _ himself, and responded in kind, taking charge of the kiss. Heat pooled low in his belly, one he couldn’t satisfy, but this was a release all its own. They broke apart for a breath, and Aden shifted from his awkward crouch to straddling him, eyes still closed out of respect for his privacy. It seemed so  _ ridiculous _ right now, keeping his hood up, as he ran his hands down Aden’s back, settling a hand over his tail and stroking gently at the base, a little tingle of healing magic chasing his fingers to counteract any pain it might cause so close to his old injuries. G’raha threaded his other hand into Aden’s hair and pulled him into another kiss.  _ This _ was the kiss he’d wanted, swallowing a soft,  _ deeply _ satisfying sound Aden made under the pressure of three hundred years of denied passion. The hand under his hood dug down to the scalp, short nails trailing over his skin, and the other into the front of his robes, twisting up in the fabric.

When they finally pulled apart, heaving for breath, Aden withdrew the hand inside his hood, reaching around behind to cup the back of his head with the fabric firmly between them. With his eyes still closed he leaned his forehead against G’raha’s, bumping the cowl up dangerously. If he opened his eyes, he’d see… but he didn’t. And the Exarch understood. He trembled at the revelation, feeling even more exposed by the thought that Aden had found the ultimate way to demonstrate his trust and his desire in  _ the Exarch _ . Even in intimacy he actively respected that barrier.

“We shouldn't--”

“Not--”

“Yeah.” But rather than move Aden kissed him again, gentler but no less intense, and he released his grip around the base of Aden’s tail to slide that hand over his stomach, G'raha's hands reflexively seeking to learn the feel of him.

This was all the time they’d ever have, after all.

When they pulled apart this time Aden carefully smoothed his hood into place, not opening his eyes until he’d drawn to a safe distance. When he opened them again the Exarch caught a slow blink, returned it even though he knew Aden couldn’t see it. He wanted to rip his cowl off right then and there, but he could not hurt Aden  _ more _ than he so selfishly had just now. Aden grabbed his shirt, his gambeson, and began dressing. It wouldn’t do to have their charge find them in a state of disarray.

They said nothing as they returned to the mouth of the cave and waited, silent but for their footfalls. The world that'd broken apart under their kiss slowly drew back together, and the Exarch stared into the distance, searching for a future where he could say the words he needed to say without stepping back from that cliff.

Korutt returned, and the Exarch welcomed the distraction. His vision fuzzed around the edges as he spoke, all the aches of his exertion and the wear of serving as a conduit for the Tower's power catching up to him now that his pounding heart slowed and adrenaline faded. He had endured far worse, overexerted himself far more, so it caught him by surprise when the world tilted. Strong arms closed around him, for one instant the only thing holding him up against the solid body that easily took his weight.

"Exarch?"

Behind his hood he closed his eyes at the gentle concern in that low murmur.

"...Worry not, I shall be fine." He spoke loudly enough for both to hear. "Long as I have been away from the Crystarium, a little weakness is to be expected." For an instant he indulged himself, waiting until he'd regained equilibrium to open his eyes and disentangle himself from Aden's steadying grip. 

When the opportunity presented itself he leapt at the chance to take the ore. He needed time and distance, a moment alone to think. He could not leave things as they were, and he could not take back what had just happened. Nor would he want to; now he could go sweetly to a true and final death, with the memory of Aden's lips on his.


	18. That None Shall Ever Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kholusia continues to be a land of revelation for the Warrior of Light, and a land of delusion. Everything falls apart just after it all seemed right as the hunt for the Kholusian Lightwarden concludes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to [Sorin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorin) for beta reading once again!
> 
> You can yell at me on twitter [@AStormcalled](https://twitter.com/AStormcalled) or tumblr [@Dellebecque](https://dellebecque.tumblr.com).

“And Aden─for good luck, may I ask that you imbue one as well?”

Aden couldn’t tear his eyes from the basket of glimmering jewels. For a moment he stood in two places--here in Kholusia, under the oppressive pressure of the Light, and in a cool, dark cave in Rak’tika, leaning against the ledge of the pool and watching these very stones glimmer like the night sky while the revelation of Hydaelyn’s nature swirled in his head and rain pounded outside. They’d been so soothing then, helped him find a calm place inside to restore his sense of righteousness. “Yeah,” he finally said, mouth a little dry, though he didn’t look up. They reminded him now why he was here, beyond the hundred lies he told himself: because no one else deserved to suffer like these people had, and just like the Light he could take the greatest of those burdens onto himself. Hydaelyn didn’t matter one whit, and neither did he. But he could  _ do _ things that mattered.

At Y’shtola’s direction he picked up a stone, green and slightly milky, rubbing his thumb over the smooth surface. He’d last seen it in Ryne’s hand, solemn under the weight of what the stone represented. If he could tear that cold, heavy stone from his breast, would it look as beautiful, or as ugly as what it did for him? He held Toddia’s heartstone close, heavy against his palm, and poured that sweet melancholy that passed for  _ hope _ into it. Today he would climb to lofty heights on the souls of all those who had gone before among the Night’s Blessed, that those who came after might look forward to a future where their ancestors shone above them always. Now he answered the questions he’d asked himself during her funeral: it didn’t matter if no one was waiting to guide him, if he wouldn’t see anyone on the other side, so long as his life and death bought others a life without fear of calamitous annihilation. He would write his own epitaph in deeds.

_ Is this what you meant, Minfilia, when you said they’d chosen to live on in me? _

Aden returned her stone to the basket, ears flicking in Urianger’s direction as Y’shtola asked him about his failsafe. With no details forthcoming, he couldn’t decide how  _ sound _ the plan was, and resolved to come up with his own. After feeling out a few of those fits he felt confident he could manage at least a  _ few _ minutes of control and lucidity if he started to turn--and it’d be enough to do  _ something _ . He just needed to figure out  _ what _ .

Y’shtola and Urianger left to deliver the stones, and for a long moment Aden stared where they’d been. He felt strangely hollow all around that cold, heavy stone after pouring aether into Toddia’s heartstone, like everything  _ but _ that solidity had drained out of him. If those long past lived on in him, in this moment they were all that he was, names scribed across that smooth surface. 

Not a quarter bell later Aden hopped the fence around Amity, chasing a villager’s directions. He hiked up the slope just south of town for the vantage point it offered over the road. Dulia’s words had  _ alarmed _ him. While  _ pale _ was always an accurate descriptor for the Exarch,  _ weak _ was  _ not-- _ but Aden remembered his near-collapse and the weight of him in his arms. He wasn’t worried, because it was the  _ Exarch _ , and his strength was part of what had drawn Aden in-- _ but I wasn’t worried  _ then _ , either _ , he thought. Aden crested the hill and looked out over the bleached grass and barren earth, and saw nothing but disturbed road dust. He dropped off the cliff, glad he’d traded the damaged jacket for his drachenmaille on the way back from Tomra. Maybe it’d been foolish to wear anything else--what’d happened in the cave certainly wouldn’t have happened, and things would be so much simpler.

The road petered out on a spit of land jutting forward from the great cliff that split Kholusia, and Aden continued, ears twitching at every sound. It’d been so long since someone touched him like that, in mercy and gentleness rather than for utilitarian reasons or in violence, and he’d overreacted, body responding even if the emotions were dim and distant--he  _ remembered _ love, even if--his lips tingled at the memory of the second kiss. Had he  _ really _ overreacted, when the Exarch responded so passionately, as if he pleaded for something with his body that could never be said in words?

Aden recalled Fray’s insistence,  _ you aren’t ready _ , and he knew he couldn’t want this  _ now _ . Or ever, perhaps--letting others in and accepting their  _ friendship _ was one thing, no less deep than love, but  _ love _ was vulnerable in a more terrible way. Someone would find a way to use the Exarch against him, or vice-versa, and they would destroy each other without ever meaning to. For Aden’s part he felt he didn’t deserve so sweet a death--he was made of violence, and one day he would go violently.

The Exarch, though, deserved all kindness.

Around the edge of a boulder Aden paused, struck by the bleak beauty of the scene. If he’d needed solitude he might’ve come this way, too, and suddenly he feared to intrude--a swathe of red caught his eye, and there was his quarry, sitting slouched in the shadow of the boulder. Aden drew close enough to body block anything that might approach and knelt, ears swiveling forward and all his attention on the cloaked man. By the soft, slow sound of his breath, the slight parting of his lips, the curl of his body, he looked… at peace. Exhausted. Aden sat like that for a long moment, watching him.

How many times had the Exarch bade him look after himself? The gentle care and admiration in his voice had been jarring at first. He bristled at being treated with such familiarity, and in such a familiar manner. Then the Exarch had settled into place by his side at Holminster so readily, so easily, like they’d done this a hundred times before _ . _ It was so perfect it seemed calculated, suspect, but he’d made a choice--he wanted, just once, to do something  _ beautiful _ rather than bloody, and the Exarch had provided that.

“Hey,” he murmured softly. The Exarch stirred, made a soft sound, but didn’t wake and so Aden reached out, touched his spoken hand gently.

The Exarch’s hand twitched beneath his, then shifted to thread their fingers together. Aden stilled, watching, listening--but after a brief hitch, the Exarch’s breath remained slow and steady. For a moment he contemplated just staying like this, letting the man sleep--he obviously needed it--but it was too dangerous out here. If he needed to rest a moment Aden more than understood his desire for privacy, not wanting those who relied on him to see weakness….

But here he was, being weak, and at the moment Aden wanted nothing more than to let him know it was alright. When he’d most needed to be weak Haurchefant had been there, doing the same for him. He squeezed the Exarch’s fingers gently, enjoying that small comfort unconsciously sought.

The Exarch murmured, “The future is where my destiny awaits...” and lifted his head, fingers squeezing back reflexively before he obviously realized what he’d done and drew his hand away. “Forgive me, I was...lost in a dream.”

“It’s fine,” Aden assured him, schooling his alarm at the Exarch’s familiar words. “Feeling better?”

The Exarch’s full lips drew into a line briefly before he said, “I needed some fresh air, and thought to rest for a moment,” avoiding the question entirely. “It would seem I am more fatigued than I realized.” He pushed up out of his slouch a little, and looked away. “Too much time away from the tower, I fear. It drains me─leaves my body frail and weak.” His head shifted like something caught his eye, and he lifted his crystal hand, seeming to scrutinize the way the light broke apart through it, or perhaps to display it to Aden. “Though, in truth, it is debatable whether I can still call this my body…”  _ It’s beautiful _ , Aden didn’t say, still listening. “When first I turned my mind towards the salvation of the world, I came to the conclusion that it would take many long years. Many more than remained to me. And so I made myself one with the Crystal Tower, that I might live indefinitely. I am but an extension of it now.” Lowering his hand, the Exarch looked up at Aden once more, and Aden forcibly hid his scowl at those words. How open and honest, much more  _ raw _ than anything the Exarch had said about himself so far, and how achingly  _ familiar _ . “Hence my weakness the farther I travel, and the longer I am away.” The Exarch sighed, giving him a weak but earnest little smile. “It has been quite a journey. But thanks to you, the end is in sight. My wish will finally be fulfilled.”

Aden’s ears shifted at that, up and then slightly out to the sides. “We won’t be out here much longer, with any luck.”

“With any luck,” he repeated, smile warming. “How goes the construction effort?”

Aden told him about the need for secondary hearts for the talos, then the heartstones, and all the other little details he’d picked up while listening to the others. As he listened the Exarch’s posture shifted, a little less slouched, and Aden felt once more like all the Exarch’s attention was on him, as if for a moment no one else existed.

“Then this may be the last moment we have to ourselves for a while.” The Exarch gestured with his spoken hand, inviting Aden to join him. “Come, sit with me.”

Aden stood from his crouch just long enough to unsling his spear, and he laid it down alongside the Exarch’s staff before he settled down, leaning against the boulder next to the Exarch, close enough to reach out but still a polite distance apart.

“Tell me, when all of this is over, what will you do?”

The question pulled a soft, surprised sound from Aden.  _ Stay with you _ , he didn’t say--they’d kissed, but that didn’t necessarily  _ mean _ anything. “Take the fight to Garlemald.” He spoke automatically, knowing his  _ duty _ , but he no longer felt righteous anger beneath those words. Instead they tasted bitter.

“Ah, yes. Even should we succeed in forestalling the Eighth Umbral Calamity, the specter of war will remain. But to declare your intent with such easy resolve... You truly are a heroes' hero, my friend.” 

The Exarch’s voice shifted fluidly from grim acknowledgement to bright mirth in his praise, and a sentiment that would’ve cut him to the core moons ago instead made Aden flatten his ears out ot the side a little, tail curling up close as he muttered, “I don’t know about that.” He’d been distant so long he barely remembered the embarrassment of praise, and it felt new all over again.

When Aden glanced sidelong at the Exarch his smile was radiant, full of something so long gone Aden barely recognized it. “Whatever it is you decide to do, I have every confidence that you will do well. For you have the strength to forge your own path. You will leave countless lives better than you found them, and the souls you touch will never forget your kindness.” That was generous,  _ beautiful _ … and wholly unrealistic. Aden was a bloody mess, monstrous in power and aspect, but the Exarch’s voice was full of conviction. “Then, in trying times, when you question your worth and your choices, they will raise their voices to remind you of the difference you have made.” A veritable  _ army _ of common folk had rallied to their call, many of them with little stake in the outcome of the events in Kholusia with their own territory safely returned to the embrace of night. Minfilia’s words echoed in his head once more, and he recalled that moment of revelation with Toddia’s heartstone in his hand. “And thus will your deeds come to affirm your path. Remember this.” His own conviction to write his epitaph in deeds resurfaced, in leaving things better than he had found them, and the Exarch’s words slowly sank in. For a moment he saw himself as the Exarch did, and internally Aden curled around that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be, clinging to the solidity of it. If he accepted that heroic vision it’d cast him adrift; he had no idea who that man was, even if he’d apparently been  _ living _ as him this whole time.

“What will you do,” Aden asked, throat a little tight, “when all this is over?” He feared the answer, but he needed the distraction.

“When this is over... Indeed…”

For a long moment the Exarch said nothing, looking out towards the cliff’s edge. Aden couldn’t see his expression but got the distinct impression he considered the question carefully. He felt he understood the Exarch, but there was so much he didn’t know--perhaps this was as difficult a question for him as it was for Aden, if not moreso. He’d dedicated his life so wholly to ending the tyranny of Light that he’d transformed himself, after all, shackled himself to the Tower. When he finally spoke he began with a quavering edge to his voice. “I once told you that there are things we can ill afford to lose.” He paused, taking a short, audible breath. “"Things,“ I said, though in truth I spoke of a person. One who is unaware of the full extent of my plans. Though he deserves to know, I have good reason to keep my counsel.” Aden’s ears flicked, and the very tip of his tail twitched. He knew exactly who the Exarch meant, and yet felt no concern--he’d chosen to trust him and that still held. “I have come to terms with this in my mind, yet my heart yearns to lay everything bare. For he is my inspiration, and I would give much and more for the chance to speak with him as friends, with no thought of concealment.

“Should he indulge me with his tales, I would regale him with my own─about my efforts in Norvrandt, perhaps.” He turned his gaze towards Aden with the slightest, briefest duck of his hooded head. “Though...ultimately, that tale is more yours than it is mine.” Aden shook his head with a slow blink, a wry little smile curling one corner of his mouth. The Exarch seemed to accept that and continued, looking up and out past the cliff’s edge once more. “Then...I would ask him about his next adventure. And if he should wish me to be a part of it, oh...how happy it would make me. Together, we would travel the lands and cross the seas and take to the skies upon the eternal wind... My heart swells simply to imagine it.”

For the first time since his recent foray into Il Mheg Aden felt intense pressure on that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be, realizing  _ I would ask him about his next adventure _ \--the Exarch had done just that. He raised his hand and hesitated, letting it hover over the Exarch’s without touching. “I’d like nothing more than to have you by my side.”

The Exarch turned to face him, lips parted slightly, and Aden felt the gaze behind that hood on him. He didn’t look away, met it as best he could without seeing the Exarch’s eyes. Tense silence filled the space between them, held breath and a dozen hopeful heartbeats. Then the Exarch reached up, threading their fingers together. “Would that I could be to you what both of us so fervently desire,” the Exarch shifted slightly, turning more of his body towards Aden, “but I… cannot, and have not the time to explain to you now. I must ask instead that you believe me, and trust me, and know that I will ever remain what I have always been: your steadfast companion. If that is enough, then I will remain by your side as long as I am able.”

Aden released a held breath, and with it some horrible tension passed out of him, the pressure holding down that cold, heavy stone loosened. Thankfully he couldn’t hurt from this gentle rejection, and now the burden of uncertainty and  _ need _ lifted from him. All this time he had waited without knowing for the Exarch to tell him what they were to one another, and  _ this _ he might not need to lift that stone for.  _ This  _ he could live with, and possibly die with, and do all that he must. He could quietly, privately love the Exarch… and to just be near him was enough. “It’s more than enough,” Aden answered, smiling, even as his throat grew strangely tight. “It’s more than I’d thought to hope for.”

The Exarch, too, released a held breath, bowing his head in apparent relief. He squeezed Aden’s fingers between his. “Thank you for your trust, and your understanding. Perhaps in another lifetime, when all is said and done.” With a deep breath the Exarch let his fingers slip from Aden’s and stood. “But all of this is contingent upon our victory in the coming battle.” He picked up his staff and Aden’s spear, and offered the latter to Aden as he rose. “The people of this world have entrusted their hopes to us. We cannot fail them.” They set off together but the Exarch paused after a few steps, murmuring almost to himself, “...Nor those who roused me from my slumber.”

Aden hesitated, too, as that strange phrase settled down against the cold, heavy stone where his heart should be, nestling alongside a half-dozen other tics and thoughts he’d actively ignored since meeting the Exarch. He’d agreed to trust the Exarch, and that meant letting go.

* * *

Not half a bell later they stood barely a hand’s width apart in Amity watching in mutual awe as Chai-Nuzz’s talos ripped itself free from living rock. Even at so great a distance the surge of aether washed over them, and as Nuzz whooped behind them they traded a proud, pleased look, Aden’s ears wiggling and the Exarch grinning. He bumped Aden’s shoulder with his, a reflexive motion that caught both of them a little off guard. They didn’t have long to dwell on it as moments later Chai-Nuzz shouted that Vauthry’s forces attacked the talos in earnest. The Exarch proposed a course of action, but Aden held up a staying hand and shook his head, grinning. 

“I made a call of my own on the way back from Tomra,” he said, and as if on cue Chai-Nuzz described the strange sight of the faerie host descending upon the sin eaters. Aden’s grin only widened as realization dawned across the Exarch’s face, until he broke out in a single sharp laugh.

“This I did not expect,” the Exarch said, surprise exchanged for his own warm smile at the sound of Aden’s laughter. “How did you convince them to join us?”

“We have an understanding,” Aden said, a little laugh still rolling under his voice. “Feo Ul loves a good fight as much as I do, and  _ that’s _ a good fight.”

“I suppose it is,” the Exarch’s own laugh just showing under his voice, and it was exactly what Aden needed to hear before setting out.

* * *

Aden and the other Scions cut a swathe up Mt. Gulg, a vanguard before and a rear guard aft to prevent any surprises. The aether coursing through the talos and through the floating mountain itself grew thicker the further up they traveled. By the time they broke through the last barrier into Vauthry’s idyllic city all the fur on Aden’s tail stood on end with the aetheric charge of the talos, and Ryne’s hair drifted about her in a staticy cloud. Not five paces across blinding white marble the ambient aether fell still, stagnation so dominant it seemed the air pressed against his every movement, and he tasted plaster at the very back of his throat. Aden grimaced, putting more effort behind each thrust of his spear to make the same impact. While he was glad for the distraction from his more personal troubles, this wasn’t the  _ way _ in which he’d prefer to be challenged.

That sensation and that bland taste in the aether fit the environs. The white marble and gold filigree seemed like a poor man’s imagining of what a rich man might possess. Topiaries and statues in unrealistic proportions depicted bodies writhing in torment, crying out and reaching towards the peak of the mountain for surcease. “Disgusting,” he muttered under his breath. This was a realm of delusion.

Behind the Echo’s steady metronome as they faced another golem turned sin eater--or perhaps a creation sprung from Vauthry’s imagination--the low warning drone of a Lightwarden rose. It struck him, as he moved to that warning sound, how like a  _ toy _ this strange creation seemed, the manner in which it attacked cruelly playful. As the blocks tumbled apart and revealed the final peak of Vauthry’s city, a monolithic pyramid crowned in gold, it struck him that this was not a poor man’s idea of a rich man’s paradise, but a  _ child’s _ . In appearance and aspect, behavior and idealization, Vauthry wasn’t a tyrant but a  _ toddler _ . Aden missed a step down under the jarring realization, even as Vauthry yelled out his rage overhead. Disdain remained, but something new settled alongside it in Aden’s breast:  _ pity _ .

It carried him up through the promenades and courtyards, past Vauthry’s consort and finally unto a grand courtyard lined in more statues of huddled masses crawling their way towards the summit. Simmering anger remained, and disgust, but if he was right then Vauthry might scarcely understand  _ why _ what he did was wrong, if he even possessed any human emotion beneath his sin eater nature.

That didn’t mean Aden wasn’t going to  _ kill _ him, of course, and Aden charged up the stairs with even more conviction as the Scions held off Vauthry’s reinforcements. He wouldn’t dare call this mercy--taking a life was  _ never _ merciful--but it would be a  _ relief _ to all the peoples of Norvrandt. The instant he saw Vauthry Aden launched himself skyward, releasing the song in his blood in a wash of aether that fought back against the oppressive  _ deadness _ in the air. Vauthry met him with magics, with sin eaters called from the sky, until finally he  _ screamed _ as he had on the balcony. Aden stopped in his tracks, ears pinning as he recoiled from piercing pain and immense  _ pressure _ in his ears. The scream continued, Vauthry hunching over in agony until light surrounded him and a  _ face _ , serene and lovely and only  _ vaguely _ human ripped itself from his breast, a terrible and awesome vision spooling out of the dissolving aether of his mortal body, clad in blue and gold, wings of golden swords and a long, stately spear like a staff of power in hand. This, too, seemed a child’s vision of what a hero or a god might look like, and it would’ve been laughable had Vauthry not lifted his spear and shouted, “Very well, I shall embrace this trial!” before bearing down on Aden.

Aden jumped, and Vauthry followed, surging upward. Rather than redirecting his momentum Aden let it play out, bringing him to the arc of the jump, and a dozen tinkling warnings rang through the Echo as the swords that comprised Vauthry’s wings broke free and shot up around him. Aden twisted between them, one scoring a fine line across his tail, another screeching across his drachenmaille, and one coming so close that rather than dodge it he threw his arm wide and it passed an ilm from his face, where his forearm had been not an instant before. He lost the optimal moment in which to work the unique magic of a dragoon, and as Vauthry continued surging up Aden fell. He slapped Vauthry’s spear with his own, using it for leverage to touch down against what remained the sin eater’s wing and jump once more, pushing Vauthry back a few fulms. As he rose the swords turned, plummeting towards him tip-first, searing aether lighting their forward edges. 

Aden twisted to avoid the first two, and then struck out with his spear on the next, hooking the blade in the tines like he might if disarming someone. He swung around, flinging it down at Vauthry even as another sword screamed a line across the back of his armor. Vauthry’s own sword slashed through his trailing robes, drawing a pale line on flesh beneath and earning an indignant, “How  _ dare _ you! The weapon of virtue shall not be sullied by impure hands!” The swords reeled on him then shot out to the sides. Once more Aden began to fall, and this time it proved a  _ blessing _ as with a swing of his spear Vauthry directed the swords back inward. They crossed so close Aden felt the breeze disturb his hair, and he touched down on the shaft of Vauthry’s spear to kick off once more.

“I will tolerate your impudence no longer, worm!” Vauthry halted his advance and thrust his spear skyward, a nimbus of golden light gathering at the tip. The swords resumed their places as the glow increased and aether built. Aden’s fur stood on end once more, and he felt the massive circle of the impending explosion. He cursed his inability to call on that fine edge of dark power and weather the coming blow, and instead hurriedly sheathed himself in scales of aether, cold blue dragonfire chasing down his spear. At the height of his jump he hung weightless for a split second, mentally calculating the distance to the ground--they were  _ very _ high up, and he’d have a  _ great _ deal of energy to dissipate before they hit the ground if he meant to live through this. But he had to make  _ damn _ sure they’d  _ hit  _ the ground--Vauthry first. He prepared to compound all that momentum as Vauthry’s spell built, and blinked rapidly against the brilliance of it. When he opened his eyes a final time they glowed from within with an eerie, inhuman light, and he bore down on Vauthry just in time to meet the spell.

Aden’s spear pierced Vauthry’s breast, and in his surprise the sin eater released the magic. It flared across Aden’s armor but he set his jaw against the searing pain and kept  _ pushing _ . They rocketed towards the ground in a fiery arc, Aden’s freezing blue aether overtaking the sin eater’s golden radiance an instant before they slammed into the courtyard. Vauthry’s city shook like an earthquake had struck, and the intricate stonework of the courtyard shattered to cobbles and threw a fine blue dust into the air. The Scions arrived just in time to cough through it and to catch sight of Aden standing from the crater and staggering away.

“Aden!” Alphinaud snapped his book back up, charging up with his carbuncle on his heels. “Are you alright?”

Aden straightened a little and made a face at him, screwing up one side of his mouth as he made a dismissive slap at the air. His armor was blackened in places and spattered with a spray of white ichor that described the macabre arc of his final blow. “Yeah,” he said, breathless. “Fine. Just.” He turned as he walked, looking back at the crater, then to the others and pointed up with his hand still low. “Did you see me?”

“‘Twas rather difficult  _ not _ to.” Thancred rested his hand on the handle of his gunblade. “Is it done?”

“It--” Aden stopped, ears swiveling back before he turned suddenly at a mewling whine from the crater.

“Why? Why am I cast down...when it is you who are the villains?”

Ryne drew up to Aden’s side and asked as the dust truly cleared, “Is that...Vauthry?”

He lay shattered in the middle of the crater, golden hair a halo around him as he pounded an armored fist in pulverized stone, wings twitching feebly. Plastery white liquid oozed from the gaping wound that’d very nearly torn him in half, but nothing Aden would’ve expected on a man showed. “Yeah,” Aden answered. “He might still--”

“I know,” Ryne said, and she stopped, standing at Aden’s side as Vathury wailed. It was a pathetic sight, and Aden didn’t have it in him to let the creature linger, even  _ if _ it was a sin eater. 

“Step back,” he told Ryne, and she did so, retreating alongside Alphinaud to the same distance as the other Scions. Aden returned to the crater, loose stones shifting under his feet while Vauthry’s weak, petulant rail against the unfairness of his defeat continued. The longer he endured it the less patience he had for it, and when he finally reached Vauthry Aden gladly stepped over his broken body to aim his spear for a final blow.

The lance of pain that presaged an Echo vision tore through his head, and Aden’s grip tightened on his spear. The world slipped away for a vision of Vauthry’s chambers, a power-hungry fool and a terrified looking woman--and the familiar voice of Emet-Selch. When he surfaced from the vision Aden looked down on Vauthry with pity once more--he’d been right, what little  _ man _ lingered in the sin eater was barely more than a child. Under that influence he’d most likely been unable to mature emotionally, his aether stagnant. Here at the last Aden had no pithy words, no threats to make, only, “It’ll be alright,” a soft, low murmur, like he might use to calm a riled chocobo. “You can rest now.” Vauthry lowered his head to the ground with a terrified sob, and Aden thrust his spear down through the back of Vauthry’s neck, slotting between where vertebrae should be.

With his spear still planted the world narrowed down to this single point, the dissipating form of Vauthry and the immense light it released. Time itself seemed to stop as light streamed up the spear into him, brimming over and pouring into every empty space inside him, taking a long time to find enough room and to settle from the swirling pride and indignation that tinged it. It washed over that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be, and Aden felt pressure for a moment--then nothing. He waited, counting out seconds, but nothing happened, so he bade the eternal light above dissipate.

Aden opened his eyes just in time to see darkness ripple across the sky, taking a moment to adjust to the gentle dark and thousand diamond-bright pinpricks scattered across it. A sense of utter calm filled him, peace and  _ accomplishment.  _ It was done. His ears twitched to follow the conversation of the others, but he only had eyes for the sky, dark and lovely as any he'd seen over the Churning Mists in his time in that preternaturally high country. Aden ripped his spear free, shook the ichor from it, and slung it, craning his neck back to look at the sky as he made his way over to the others.

He couldn’t wait to share it with the Exarch, his first thought before everything else the man who had brought him here and bade him perform these beautiful miracles, who had worked so hard for this. It was his victory more than Aden’s, and what better way to celebrate it than to stand here at the top of the world and gaze on the night so long denied it? He didn’t resent that gentle rejection outside Amity-- _ steadfast companion  _ would be enough. It’d been a long time since he felt this way about someone, true, but it’d been even longer since he’d had so good a friend.

A searing tingle spread over the space just behind his temples, followed by a soft pop. He reached up and quickly pulled off the dampeners, found them blackened and warm. He scowled down at them in confusion, uncertain why  _ now,  _ of all times, they'd--

He lost the moment between standing and falling to his knees, a paroxysm of utmost agony stealing his senses so thoroughly he didn't realize he was screaming until everything faded back in from white. He screamed so long and so loud he felt his throat tearing, the pain so all-consuming he had absolutely no control over the reflex. After he spent his breath he doubled over, trying to suck down more but only choking on his ragged throat and the thick, plastery fluid rising up in him. The agony gripped him so totally he was unable to put a coherent thought to the dread certainty that suffused him, the anxious, adrenaline filled panic spreading through his limbs with every convulsion. In this moment he became a creature of instinct, pure reaction, unable to reason.

_ Adrenaline  _ and  _ instinct  _ awoke that dark fire within him, black tendrils rising up from between the cracks in that cold, heavy stone where it’d held back the dread warmth that’d undo him, and he clawed his way through pain to take one heaving, full breath. His mind slowly awakened, everything muzzy and faded despite that dark fire. He had the presence of mind to restrain it, because they  _ had a plan, Urianger had a plan, keep it in just a little longer, just a little-- _

Another convulsion wracked his body and he lost everything in a moment of bright agony. Time lost all meaning,  _ he _ lost all meaning, but one dark, cold thought in all that light-- _ not like this. _

Something  _ shifted  _ inside him, snatched at that bright aether trying to rip it's way free of his flesh, and  _ pulled _ . It was a truly horrifying sensation, like a hundred fishhooks caught at his insides and strained to pull something vital out of him. They didn't quite succeed, but the pain changed, some small portion of it outside of him as if he existed, very briefly, in two places at once. The distance gave him freedom to breathe, to move his head and cast his gaze up like a supplicant to merciful heavens--

The Exarch smiled gently, sadly down at him, staff raised. He spoke, but the words were a jumble, lost in the bright hell of his senses. Panic rose in him again, and true terror unlike any he had known before.  _ NononononotherenothimrungoIcan't… _

_ Can't go with your blood on my hands my last memory…. _

And then he saw the nimbus of light around the man and  _ understood.  _ He opened his mouth to speak, choked instead on white bile roiling up out of him as his body changed. His ears rang with bright noise as he spat it out, that  _ pull _ continued, and faintly, so faintly above the din:

“At journey’s end an opportunistic thief makes off with the hero's prize. A paltry way to end a chapter, I concede." Those words rang in his mind with echoes of another time, of watching the stars from a cliff in Mor Dhona while another young man with  _ infectious _ enthusiasm for the unknown speculated on what they might find within the tower, and suddenly everything clicked into place, all the pieces of the puzzle that was the Exarch. He  _ knew _ . "Yet your tale will continue, and my role in it will scarcely be remembered."  _ No.  _ He rejected it with every onze of strength he possessed, focused himself in that bright agony and threaded the fingers of his own soul through that light and  _ pulled _ .  _ I've only just found you, you can't _ \--the Exarch's will exceeded his, and the light slowly spooled through his aetherial grasp, dragging across the rawest parts of him. He remembered the Exarch lifting a shield over him to catch a blow back in Holminster Switch, and his agonized mind conflated the vision with another. He sobbed, choked on pain that had nothing to do with the light but that searing warmth inside him unchecked, rippling fire across a name carved in stone.  _ I cannot do this a second time! _

"Worry not. Whatever should become of me, I will be happy and free, safe in the knowledge that I have played my part."

The Exarch's hood fell back in the wind whipped up by the aetherial surge, and confirmation of what Aden knew in his heart proved too much--there was that young man staring back at him, changed by hardship and time but  _ him.  _ He didn't know how or why, but it didn't matter.  _ Nothing _ mattered but the fact that there he was, sacrificing himself again. Committing suicide to save Aden's life.  _ Like Haurchefant did. _

He let go the reins of that dark fire within him, surging with familiar anger and desperation. Gods _ damn _ the machinations that’d led them here, this star, this terrible fate he repeated again and again of losing the people most precious to him. Aden shook as the two forces within him clashed, light eating away his body and shattering his soul to wear the cracked fragments like a mockery of his power, and that dark, searing cold fire burning away the shards of him before they could warp and twist. He found the strength in that fire for one  _ tiny  _ movement: he reached out his hand, to grasp, to plead, to  _ beg _ ; and one  _ tiny  _ word, breaking anguished in his ruined throat: “ _ G’raha!” _

The Exarch faltered, surprise and joy and sorrow dancing across his face in equal parts, sudden wetness glittering at the corners of his eyes, and that hesitation was all Aden needed. There was  _ hope _ in that hesitation, an opening, and that fire surged in him. He nearly dropped his hand, convulsing with another shock of pain, spat thick, white fluid again, then pushed up to one knee.

“Thank you, for fighting for this world. For believing.” He heard tears in the Exarch’s voice, emotion he no longer restrained, and that fire flared with the need to reach him, to  _ stop _ him, to hold him and lie to him as he’d been lied to--that everything would be alright, and they would walk out of all of this into another grand adventure side by side. “Fare you well, my friend--my _inspiration_.”

The Exarch seemed to stand taller, chin held higher, that sorrow fled for the unique certainty of one who faces death willingly and with open arms. That pull intensified, and Aden staggered to his feet with a ragged shout, “ _ G’raha, don’t--” _

At first the crack of the gun didn’t register, more noise in the din of light and fire, but when the Exarch’s expression shifted and the staff slipped from his fingers Aden had just one moment of shocking clarity before all that light rushed back, the pain flooring him and ripping free another anguished, broken scream. He hit the ground hard, knees cracking audibly and the shock of it sent an alarming jolt up his spine. He doubled over, realized the moisture forming at the corners of his eyes wasn’t tears but that thick, plastery fluid--it hadn’t clouded his vision yet. He still saw the Exarch lying there motionless.

“Only those who possess the Royal Eye of the Allagan imperial line are capable of controlling the Crystal Tower.”

He watched Emet-Selch lower his gun. “Such individuals do not exist in the First. Therefore, in all likelihood, the Exarch arrived here with the tower. This much I had surmised, yet I could not discern his grand scheme.” The Ascian walked forward slowly, deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world, and came to stop beside the Exarch’s prone form, gazing down at the man. “To think that he went through all this trouble for the sake of a single hero. It's almost admirable in its absurdity. Alas, it is not your grand scheme that will succeed, but ours.”

Vengeful rage returned to him, familiar, burning and cold all at once, ice and wildfire in his veins and wrapped around the tattered, bleeding shreds of the desperation that had driven him to his feet. This his oldest friend and ally, this his  _ truest _ self, the hard, unbreakable core behind the legend of him, the part of him that remembered Nidhogg’s song and  _ kept it alive _ , answered. For one moment all his senses resolved into crystalline clarity, and the pain… the pain was no longer a burden but  _ exquisite _ . This too was fuel for the pyre he’d made of his soul. Aden rose unsteadily to his feet once more, and took a single step forward.

“Stay put. Your friend is still alive, but whether he remains so depends on you.” Emet-Selch looked up at Aden, but shifted and leveled his gun once more--this time at the back of the Exarch’s head. “What a disappointment you turned out to be. I placed my faith in you. Let myself believe that you could contain the Light. But look at you now, halfway to becoming a monster. You are unworthy of my patronage.”

_ Only halfway? _ He wanted nothing more than to tear apart the Ascian’s flesh, to feel hot blood spill over his lips and rip and rend until he got down to the aetherial heart of him, then coat his hands in blessed light and make a pathetic ruin of Emet-Selch’s soul. He could do it, too, knew now he could use this fire to ride the transformation into a lightwarden long enough to fight him, maybe  _ kill _ him, buy the Scions enough time to grab G’raha and  _ get away _ . But even the vicious, song-filled beast crawling up out of him in the growing light knew it couldn’t snatch a bullet from the air. “ _ What do you intend to do? _ ” His broken voice came out more of a growl, something within him already changing--and it pushed him to challenge Emet-Selch.

For his part Emet-Selch either refused to acknowledge or didn’t understand the degree of  _ threat _ of remaining within lunging distance of Aden. “I am an Ascian. My heart's sole desire is to usher in the Great Rejoining. A hundred years ago, I entrusted my comrade Loghrif with the task of increasing Light's sway over this world. This we sought to do by manipulating heroes. When that failed to achieve the desired result, I created Vauthry.” Aden’s hands flexed involuntarily, eager to feel flesh part beneath them. “But thanks to your meddling, that too has ended in failure.”

“What was your true purpose in approaching us?” Aden’s ears flicked to the side, and he growled at Alphinaud’s interruption.

“By your Twelve, boy, have I not told you before that everything I said was the truth?“ But Emet-Selch turned to look at Alphinaud, and Aden tensed--was enough of his attention off G’raha? But for the convulsions he couldn’t control every muscle in Aden’s body stilled, tensed with an animal anticipation, watching for any sign of weakness. “You were specimens by which I might gauge man's potential as it stands. I genuinely had an interest in you. Genuinely considered taking you on as allies. Provided he could contain and control the Light. If not then he─and by extension you─would be of no use to me. 'Twas as simple as that.”

Every heartbeat was a second closer to the moment in which he could destroy Emet-Selch.

“So we've been found wanting. How disheartening.” Something very small, something  _ hiding _ in him stirred at Thancred’s tone. His waking mind, not this sleeping beast trying to claw its way out of his flesh. “But even had we fulfilled your conditions, there was no guarantee that we would cooperate. What then?

“Then I simply kill you all. At the very least, it would restore the world to the way it was before you went about trouncing Lightwardens willy-nilly. Suffice it to say it would be most inconvenient to have all that Light taken away─and I would be lying if I were to claim his actions didn't have me worried.” Emet-Selch turned back to him, and every muscle in Aden’s body  _ screamed _ at the tension, at the fire ravaging him. If they kept  _ talking _ he couldn’t hold it together much longer, he needed to--

The world fell out from under him in bright pain again, that dark fire sputtering out, but he had no breath left to scream this time, collapsing hard and catching himself on his hands, one of his wrists making a sickening  _ pop _ under the force.

Emet-Selch followed him, kneeling down in front of Aden to inspect him as his stomach clenched around  _ whatever _ was left of him by this point. He felt  _ hollow _ , like someone had gone at his core with a drill and bored out everything that made him  _ him. “ _ Hm, you still retain your form and your senses...but you have all but become a sin eater.” He heaved up more of that thick, plastery liquid, felt it drying on his lips and dribbling down his chin, unable to force his head up to meet Emet-Selch’s gaze as his arms gave way and he collapsed onto his elbows.

“Whether you will it or no, your mere existence will serve to engulf the world in Light. Those in your company will likewise turn into sin eaters, and in time you will succumb to your base instincts and hunt innocents to feast on their sweet, sweet aether. Those few with the will left to fight may rise up against you. But before your absolute might, they will quickly know despair. "There is no hope! We are finished! Mankind is finished!“ He took some vain satisfaction, what little he had the mind left for, in the fact that he’d  _ almost _ thrown up on Emet-Selch’s shoe. “Ahhh, the irony. What Vauthry achieved through bliss, you will achieve through despair.”

The Ascian stood, passing entirely out of his vision. “But I have overstayed my welcome. I shall look forward to seeing you bring the world to its knees, hero.” The din began to rise again, overwhelming his senses in a clamor of static, but he knew well the thrum of a teleportation, and in his state he felt the aether of it in his  _ teeth _ . Though nothing else made it through, he heard Emet-Selch’s voice clear as day, as if it reached in through the haze directly to his soul.

“I have naught to show for all the time and effort I invested in you. He is a small token for my troubles. I did not expect that I could learn aught from man, but I may yet learn something from all the knowledge he had hoarded for his precious hero.”  _ You cannot have him you will not  _ keep _ him I will  _ take _ him from you I will take  _ everything _ from you-- “ _ I pity you, I do. Your friends are now your foes. If you do not kill them, they will kill you.”

Aden’s arms fully gave way this time, and he collapsed onto his side, dazed and twitching feebly as he felt his flesh finally begin to warp. Yet  _ still _ that voice reached him, something almost approaching genuine empathy in it. ”When it all becomes too much to bear, seek me out at my abode, in the dark depths of the Tempest. There, you may complete your descent into madness with some dignity, far from prying eyes.”

When his vision faded he saw in his mind’s eye G’raha surrounded by that nimbus of light, looking on death like a true martyr, a zealot at the sacrificial altar. He had no real tears left to cry, only this unctuous fluid, but he wept all the same, voice breaking so hard he lost the first sound of, “‘raha….”

“Till then, I bid you farewell...eater.”

_ Don’t go where I can’t follow. Not again. _


	19. Where Midnight Frosts had Lain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Exarch--G'raha--is gone. Light consumes the Warrior of Darkness. Everything relies on finding the adamant will--the immense strength--to move forward against the placidity of the Light.
> 
> That strength has long laid buried alongside wounds that have never healed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I should not dare to leave my friend,  
Because—because if he should die  
While I was gone—and I—too late—  
Should reach the Heart that wanted me—_
> 
> _If I should disappoint the eyes  
That hunted—hunted so—to see—  
And could not bear to shut until  
They "noticed" me—they noticed me—_
> 
> _If I should stab the patient faith  
So sure I'd come—so sure I'd come—  
It listening—listening—went to sleep—  
Telling my tardy name—_
> 
> _My Heart would wish it broke before—  
Since breaking then—since breaking then—  
Were useless as next morning's sun—  
Where midnight frosts—had lain! _  
\--I Should Not Dare To Leave My Friend, Emily Dickinson

He woke in blinding, brilliant white. It bored down through the center of him, through his overthinking, overanalyzing mind, through his all-consuming righteous rage, through the cold, heavy stone where his heart should be. It left nothing but numb peace behind. A feeling he’d once wished for fervently: the restful bliss of non-existence.

“It’s all I can do to keep it from getting worse.”  _ You’re doing fine, Ryne. I just need to rest…. _

* * *

He woke in a pale haze, grey shapes out of focus, grey voices out of tune, the grey peace of indifference suffusing his limbs and binding them leaden. His heart beat so slowly that his mind drifted between each pulse, and he forgot to count, to see how close he was to danger. It didn’t matter, did it?

“Alphinaud and Alisaie will be returning briefly today… They shall be pleased to hear Ryne has suppressed the light successfully, but I imagine they’ll be quite upset that he’s been out long enough his wrist has fully healed.”

“Was that…?”

“A reflex, I think. He’s been more active in his sleep lately. Gods, I never thought I’d be  _ happy _ to see someone having a nightmare, but last night….”

* * *

He woke in the half-light of bright morning hid behind gauzy curtains, in the silence before the world wakes, and it filled him with the soft peace of gentle anticipation, that something is coming yet unseen but long looked for. He felt small, long-fingered hands wrapped around one of his, the calloused touch of one used to hard work with a sword. He heard soft, troubled breathing, as of one who has very recently been in tears.  _ You’ll be fine, Alisaie. Your heart will heal in time. _

* * *

He woke in dim light filtering through frosted glass to a dark wooden ceiling, tired and sore and muzzy-headed, full of so many urgent needs his body couldn’t rightly decide on a priority. And  _ tired _ , still so  _ tired _ , though it felt like he’d slept through an entire age of man. And he woke in the stillness of a large, familiar room that signals one is  _ alone _ .

“Ah. Finally.”

No, not alone. Never alone. Aden pushed himself up out of bed, agonizingly slow with every joint stiff as cermet. His back twinged in such a perfect chord of agony that he nearly collapsed, but he grit his teeth and held that awkward half-twisted position until it mellowed out to the dull ache that was the background music of his life. “What happened?” He hardly recognized his own broken, worn voice.

“After you collapsed, Emet-Selch vanished.” Ardbert helpfully stepped into view--Aden wasn’t about to move  _ quickly _ , and the spirit was going to have to accommodate  _ him _ for the time being. “Then Ryne did what she could to stay the raging of the Light within your body. Thanks to her, you're still you, but she's only delayed the inevitable.”

“I’m not sure about that first part.” Aden finally managed to pull himself into an upright position. “How long was I out?”

“...Long enough.”

_ That’s not an answer _ , he wanted to spit at the spirit, but… didn’t. It seemed pointless to even play at spite. As he turned to dangle his legs over the edge of the bed Aden wondered if that was his newfound peace with the spirit, or the sedate pressure of the light. Even now he felt a tingle in all his limbs and a gentle weight in his head, like he’d been dosed with poppy syrup. He just sat there for a moment, staring into space, stuck on the sensation.

“You're not going to like what you see, but you still need to see it.”

Aden blinked rapidly, shaking his head and looking up. Had he--dozed? Lost focus? How long had it been? Ardbert looked at him from near the balcony with a crease on his brow, and this seemed the path of least resistance: give the spirit what he wanted. Aden stood slowly, trying desperately not to tweak his back again, then stiffly made his way towards the doors.

He pushed them open and blinding light poured in, yet for some reason his eyes were already adjusted--convenient, that…  _ terrifying _ , that, a small part of him retorted--small and quiet and so very  _ tired _ and  _ afraid _ right now, this wasn’t right, he should be setting his jaw and pushing through the pain and running out and--

“It's like this all over. The whole of Norvrandt is shrouded in Light again.” He expected that, somehow. He knew it should upset him more than it did, but it hardly felt like an inconvenience. Aden frowned, because that was the correct response to unpleasant news, wasn’t it? “...And it's because of you and the power you absorbed from the Wardens. No one knows but your friends.” He felt Ardbert’s gaze on him, examining him for a sign of  _ something _ , and it niggled at the back of his mind that he knew what but Aden could not fight the inertia of his sluggish thoughts to uncover it. Vague patterns of color in the endless light provided an easier distraction. “When they carried you down from the mountain, they told everyone waiting below that they didn't understand why the Light had returned. And now they're out there trying to allay the people's fears while searching for a way to save you.” He had the feeling that some time had passed, but not how much, having lost himself again for a moment. Aden blinked, one ear flicking to the side, and turned to face Ardbert who looked on him with…

_ Fear _ ? Concern? It finally set the cogs of his mind turning. He had to do better; the path of least resistance was seeming well enough that no one questioned it. That had always gotten him through before.

“...If you're well enough to be up, you're well enough to get some fresh air. Better that than stewing in here. Go on. Go.” That seemed simple enough, but to act the part he needed to… 

His waking mind shut off, and Aden went through the rote motions of preparing to face polite company. He saw to his body's needs… except for one, but his stomach clenched violently at the thought of food, and he tasted bright chalk. He trimmed and shaved what looked like weeks of beard down to the customary neat, short line along his jaw, just barely nicked himself. He watched in the mirror as a bead of too pale blood welled up, and frowned slightly at his reflection. It seemed like he should be more upset about that, but he just... wasn't.

Finally he was presentable, even if he didn't _ look _ well, pale and a little gaunt by this point. Strange, that he should look so poorly, eyes dull and all the color washed out of him, and yet feel… nothing. He felt neither good nor bad. In fact, he barely felt anything at all but tired and achy. Ardbert had the right of it, though. Maybe. He wasn't sure why he thought that.

He responded to the master of suites’ concern politely, because that was what he  _ should _ do. When the man told him he should see Bragi, that sounded like as good an idea as any. He made his polite hellos, and Bragi gave him a look Aden couldn’t quite put his finger on. Admittedly he zoned out during Bragi’s description of how they’d made it back, unbothered by the details.

“...Exarch away in the midst of the chaos. Wicked white, what is this world coming to...?”

G’raha’s title pulled him out of his reverie, and in his mind’s eye he saw him once more, surrounded by a nimbus of light, that look of sorrow and--perhaps rapture?--on his face. Would he have transformed while making off with the aether? Would some heavenly vision have ripped free from his flesh in the last instant? What would it have looked like?

Aden frowned very slightly. He didn’t like that thought. He didn’t like that he had such a mild reaction to that thought. Looking inward, he turned it over in his mind. The concept should disturb him, should make him rail with every fiber of his being against the possibility, but instead he felt… very little.

“But this business with the Exarch...it weighs heavily upon all our minds.”

“It weighs on mine too,” he answered, words just a touch slow, voice careful. Had he heard something about Chessamile? He suddenly needed to  _ move _ , and it seemed as good a direction as any.

He ducked out of the light into Spagyrics and every head in the room turned to look at him. Their gazes prickled on his skin in a familiar way that felt… strange right now. It  _ should _ have been uncomfortable, should have made his tail twitch and his ears flick and his shoulders draw in to present less of a visual target. Chessamile turned from her work in back, took a few halting steps forward and stopped, making no effort to disguise that she assessed him. “Oh! Oh, sweetie, you're alive!”

“For now,” he said without thinking, voice broken and a little flat.

An expression of matronly comfort curled her mouth and softened her eyes. He hesitated half a step--he’d seen Arild make that face a hundred times, and the warm and sorrowful nostalgia of homesickness bubbled up inside his placid haze. He wondered how they were doing, if Tataru had sent them a message yet--but no, she wouldn’t have, because they were trying to keep his absence a secret. As far as the world knew he was still recovering in Ishgard. He wasn’t sure if his mothers would be relieved that he was  _ resting _ for once or worried that it seemed to be taking so long.

The truth would surely horrify them.

...But Arild would  _ love _ the Exarch. He entertained the thought of her sitting the man down in her kitchen with cookies and lemonade and plying him with conversation for hours. They’d be horrified, yes, but Arild would privately tell him he’d done right by chasing his heart.  _ He’s sweet and warm-hearted _ , he imagined her telling him as they sat by the fire, Aden holding the yarn for her knitting suspended between his hands.  _ He’ll care for you. And now that I’ve met him no other will do. _

“No one's been allowed to see you─even the Spagyrics chirurgeons were forbidden from making visits…” She folded her hands in front of her, radiating a sort of soft comfort he hadn’t realized he missed. “Ryne was kind enough to tell me you were showing symptoms similar to eater corruption─so I suppose there was little any of us could have done for you in any case.”

“I just needed to rest,” he lied easily. He was used to telling lies--ones that got people to leave him alone, things they wanted to hear.--yet even as he said it he didn’t expect her to believe him.

“You look as though you could do with a little more,” she chided gently, “as did your friends when last I saw them. They've been rushing hither and yon, seeking a cure to your condition. I worry to see their faces grown ever more haggard every time they pass through the Crystarium…”

His mind stuttered on that, conjuring an image of the Scions dragging themselves in to check on him, careworn and bedraggled, before making off for the far flung corners of Norvrandt again. Just like any other crisis--only now  _ Aden  _ was the threat they sought to avert. There wasn’t a cure, of course, because if there  _ was _ someone would’ve found it in all these years.

“I shall let them know you're awake. And when they come to see you, sweetie, please do convince them to rest a bit─they won't be helping anyone if they all collapse of exhaustion.” He nodded dully, and things went sort of  _ blank _ for a moment, her words washing over him barely heard until, “and the Exarch as well.”

Aden looked up, uncertain when his gaze had wandered. There was something there, pushing through the sluggish haze of his mind like walking through deep water. He just nodded, the need to  _ move _ taking him again. This still wasn’t the  _ right _ thing, but if he didn’t  _ move _ and  _ go _ something terrible would happen inside him.

He wended his way to the Cabinet of Curiosities, the smell of books and polished wood settling one single speck of comforting shadow in the brightness of his mind. He’d read almost none of these, with little time to spare in his mad dash to save Norvrandt (his mad dash to a monstrous end [his mad dash to G’raha’s death]), but still regarded them as old friends he simply hadn’t met. Here he found a different kind of peace, one that lulled him off his guard, and by the time he made it to the top of the stairs he returned to that half-awareness where Moren’s words washed over him.

“So many questions I would pose to the Exarch...and thus do I feel his absence all the more keenly.” That drew his attention from the spines of the books, that title, those  _ words _ .  _ I miss him. _ A spark of color in the blank whiteness of his mind, a curl of warmth from… somewhere. _ _ He remembered meeting the Exarch at the door to his rooms after returning from Malikah’s Well, the gentle but insistent concern in the Exarch’s voice and the anxious shift of his body. The duality of his touch, warm and cool, moments later. “Now that you are awake, however, I am hopeful the search for our stolen steward might begin in earnest.”

Aden stared at Moren,  _ through _ him, his mind’s eye replaying a vision of G’raha’s retreating form as the doors of the Crystal Tower closed.  _ I missed him then, too _ . Not the same way--he hadn’t felt the same, though he’d felt… companionship to the young man who both challenged and relied on him. He hadn’t considered more because it just wasn’t his way to  _ think _ of people like that. In retrospect he could have. He  _ might _ have. He had been a friend, and Aden had mourned the loss of him.

He didn’t want to mourn his friend a second time.

He didn’t want to mourn a  _ lover _ a second time. And while the Exarch had turned him down, and he’d decided he was  _ fine _ with companionship, it didn’t change how he felt.

_ Do everything in your power to keep him by your side, _ Nadine would say, leaning over the fence and gazing out on her prized birds as they grazed in the field.  _ Whatever it takes. Even if you have to go through all seven hells--even if you fall. Make them pay for every second they take from you with an age of regrets. _

The peace of the library grew oppressive, standing here surrounded by books too much a comfort. He left Moren mid-sentence, turned and headed down the stairs while the man trailed off. This wasn't working, none of this was  _ right _ . And yet every time he stopped an immense sense of weight settled on his mind. It felt like a warm, downy blanket pulled over his thoughts and feelings. He'd always thought best while moving, so it stood to reason that motion might help him shake off this languor.

He had failed. The light seethed within him, held back only by the dam of his will… and poorly at that, if his distressingly unflappable state was any indication. This insidious inaction would drive him to rest until the Light overtook him.  _ War _ , he’d heard that word recently, and his feet carried him unbidden to the one who’d been associated with it.

“Aden! Alive and well, I see!”

He looked up to find Katliss beckoning him over, out of the light and under the canopy at the Crystalline Mean. He obeyed without thought, though he possessed the presence of mind to quip, “Debatably,” voice breaking in his ruined throat as he spoke.

She winced. “You gave us all a proper fright, you know that? Not a day's gone by that I haven't heard folk worrying what's to become of you or the Exarch… Anyway, I'm glad you've recovered enough to stand.”

“Thank you.” Something about her manner kept his mind afloat, buoyant on that bright haze. “I’m… worried about what’s become of him, too.”

Katliss looked him up and down, as much assessment in her gaze as Chessamile’s, but not softened by gentle concern. “...You're not planning on striking out straightaway, though, are you? I was hoping to have a better look at your equipment..” She turned away slightly, raising one hand to her chin in thought.. “If we'd been able to provide you with better weapons or sturdier helms...then maybe you would have won the day, and the Exarch would still be here.”

_ But he wouldn’t _ . All Aden’s muscles tightened, his tail going rigid and his ears flicking aside. If Katliss noticed she didn’t comment, and asked something about looking over his gear. “I’ll have it sent over.”

Glynard’s arrival stole some of the tension from his body, and he was  _ grateful _ for the sudden distraction for Katliss. The Exarch  _ wouldn’t _ be here if he’d had better arms or armor, but he could say  _ nothing _ . The man had planned to  _ kill himself _ for the world’s sake--for  _ Aden’s _ sake--and lied about who he was and exactly what he meant to do from the very beginning. Worst of all, he was  _ right _ . Aden  _ absolutely _ would have found a way to stop him, knowing the plan, and would have been drawn even closer in that slow dance they’d shared had he known the Exarch’s identity. He railed against the sacrifice that’d nearly happened and might yet,  _ angry _ not for the secrecy and lies but… angry at the fate that made it  _ necessary _ . Perhaps angry at Urianger for having the vision in the first place. G’raha had come to a reasonable conclusion, and given his current circumstances Aden didn’t see another way out. Were the man here, he would be killing himself right now, and Aden powerless to stop him.

“We can't forget the heart upon which this city was founded, or the Exarch might not have much of a home to return to.”

_ He never intended to come home.  _ Aden closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a deep breath. How long had G’raha been prepared to die? How long had he been living as a sacrifice? His hands balled into fists at his sides, and he felt that white bile rising in him before Katliss asked, “Aden, are you alright?”

“No,” he mouthed--his throat had tightened, and in its ruined state he couldn’t force a sound. It  _ hurt _ now, which was a relief after all the drifting haze. Every part of him hurt, his joints stiff and seizing, but most of all the weight of that cold, heavy stone  _ ached _ . He would lose the Exarch if he did nothing--and he would lose him to self-sacrifice if he did  _ anything _ . He could not move without killing his dearest friend.

“I think a return to your sickbed might be in order.” The concern in her voice seemed tinged with the slightest edge of fear, but he didn’t have the energy to question why.  _ I can’t rest, not now. _ “Ah, or you might consider resting a while atop the watchtower next to the rookery. This damnable sky doesn't make for the most soothing scenery, but the Exarch often liked to stand there and feel the wind upon his face.”

Aden looked up at that, realized that Glynard had left in the time he’d spent brooding--had the man said anything to him? He couldn’t recall, not even a vague sense as he’d had when he zoned out on the others, and Aden scowled. It felt familiar. That little tinge of anger at himself felt  _ reassuring. _ “That sounds like a good idea.” It did. He needed to be somewhere high up, to be above his troubles and feel the wind.

“Whatever you decide to do, I suggest you do it slowly. You are not yet well…”

He unclenched his hands, and gave her a vague wave as he left. It was rudely dismissive, perhaps, but it felt more  _ normal _ than anything else he’d said or done all day.

When he arrived at the top of the tower and gazed out over the light-blasted landscape he expected… something  _ more _ . That standing up here might trigger a vision, or he might feel the lingering presence of the man to whom this place  _ truly _ belonged. Instead he had the solitude he so valued, and the weight of  _ absence _ pressed on him. The Exarch was lost to him. His allies were not here. No one in the city expected anything of him but to attempt to recuperate. It was such an alien feeling to not have a pressing task at hand or an expectation or an  _ obnoxious _ associate or a problem he  _ could actually solve _ upon which to brood. It was an equally alien feeling to expect to find someone here who  _ understood _ , and then… not. Even after Haruchefant’s death he had not felt so alone, knowing Edmont understood and shared his grief, given direction in Thordan’s pursuit and driven by anger and the feedback loop of vengeance that was Nidhogg’s song. Slowly, because his joints were stiff and it was so  _ strange _ a motion, Aden wrapped his arms around himself, drawing in tight and bowing under the weight of everything he held inside. Even his oldest friend, that righteous rage that drove him, had abandoned him. No wit or artifice, no strength of arms or aether, no blessings or gifts could avail him now and deliver him unto victory. The Exarch would die or worse, and Aden would die and leave this land a blessed ruin. And here he was, facing the finality of what had happened to him, truly  _ alone _ for the very first time, something he had sought many times and no longer wanted.

“ The people of this city have spirit, I'll give them that. They've not lost the will to fight.” No, not alone. Never alone. He didn’t need to look up to feel the spirit approaching. It wasn’t the comforting presence he’d  _ wanted _ to find here, but… it was  _ something _ .  _ Someone _ who understood. “I can imagine how torn you must feel, looking at that sky. Knowing what it means to everyone...and that you're responsible.”

He could…  _ feel _ it. How anyone with even marginal aether sensitivity couldn’t tell he was radiating all of this boggled the mind--perhaps some side effect of Ryne’s efforts. And that made it all the worse. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing stalking amongst the Exarch’s flock, a monster one onze of will from ripping its way out of his skin. Aden all but  _ shook _ with the knowledge that, for  _ once _ in his life, the truly heroic thing to do would be to  _ flee _ . No one here had any idea what lurked beneath the surface, and they would stand no chance. “The secrecy is worse,” he choked out, throat tight and voice broken.

“If you're thinking of coming clean, don't.” Ardbert drew closer and Aden straightened a little, feeling that strange connection between them ignite. It eased some of the tension in him, like a hand against his back from a trusted ally. “It might make you feel better, but it would make things a hundred times worse for them. They're better off not knowing.”

Aden nodded slowly. “I know,” he muttered, arms wrapping a little tighter around himself, fingers digging into the meat of his biceps. He needed the pressure to hold in the secrets along with the light.

“You're in a corner, and there doesn't seem to be any obvious way out. ...But that doesn't mean it's over. However hopeless it seems, you haven't lost yet.” He just nodded again, knowing the words weren’t empty--so long as he drew breath under his own will and not under the placid yet implacable need of the Light to  _ wipe clean _ , he had not yet lost. It had always been so, pushing himself to breaking, even if this was already further than he knew he had it in him to go.

“I remember looking up at the sky like this before─being caught up in a strange kind of calm.” Ardbert stepped up beside him, chin tilted up--Aden didn’t need to look at him to know his movements with that strange connection between them. It was unlike the familiar dance he shared with the Exarch in combat, the perfect love and trust of an old ally. This was something more akin to the Echo, but without the insistent, niggling warning. Just… awareness. “It was after we realized we were responsible for the Flood. When we resolved to journey to the Source by taking our own lives. One last sacrifice, one last fight...one last failure. And then the Oracle appeared and...well. You know the rest.”

Some of that need for pressure eased. This seemed more familiar, listening to the troubles of another. But they weren’t entirely the troubles of another--they’d come knocking at his door, and he’d first felt that strange connection to Ardbert while desperately trying to fell the man and his allies. He’d inherited their woes--they’d blossomed into his current predicament. Ardbert knew his despair, his helplessness. “There were times in the years and decades that followed when I wondered if we might not've been better off just letting the Rejoining happen. That we'd made one last mistake…

“But seeing that giant Talos stir to life cured me of any doubts I still had.” Finally Aden looked up. Pride painted a bright smile across Ardbert’s face, and his far-off look said he was elsewhere, probably watching the golem tear itself free from the ground once more. It  _ had _ been a marvelous feat, one taking a truly monumental degree of coordination to pull off… and admittedly Aden had thought it  _ dumb _ until realizing they had the manpower to pull it off in a matter of hours.

“Always. Always we took the burden of fighting upon ourselves. That's what heroes do, isn't it?” It was, and Aden winced at his earlier weakness--it was the burden of a hero to bear this kind of weight alone, that others needn’t suffer. He’d always taken that duty stoically, knowing no other option lay before him, that perhaps no one else  _ could _ do the things that needed doing. “So we never had the chance to see anything like that─our people, coming together as one. To think that their hope still burned so bright. ...That they were still so eager to live, they would lift up their fellows, one on top of the other, till they reached the sky.” Ardbert lowered his gaze from the heavens, turning towards Aden, that grin still bright on his face. “No, we made the right decision. And I can finally feel proud of the part we played in helping this world survive.” 

He raised his fist and held it out towards Aden, but Aden only stared at it. Even as he knew Ardbert  _ understood _ he instinctively shied from what that gesture represented. In this moment it felt like Ardbert was all he had left, and if he accepted that extended hand--”Well? Come on, then!” Aden released a held breath and pried his fingers loose, uncurling his arms from their death grip around himself to meet Ardbert’s gesture in kind.

The second they made contact light flared between them, and some of that haze bled out of Aden’s mind. He made a soft, surprised sound that never escaped his worn throat, and looked up at Ardbert and his self-satisfied grin. “You knew that’d happen.”

“What happened between us was no coincidence. My story may be finished, but the fates have gifted me a minor role in yours.” The longer they stood there the easier it was to think. Not the way it’d been while the Exarch pulled Light from him, but as if Ardbert improved his capacity to  _ cope _ somehow. “I suspected as much the moment I realized you could hear me, but it's hard not to doubt yourself when you're the man who caused the Flood…" Were his eyes playing tricks on him, or did Ardbert seem more solid? "I was afraid to do anything more than watch for fear of making things even worse… but no longer. After all, the path I once walked is now yours to finish."

Ardbert drew away, and as Aden let his own hand fall the clarity remained. It wasn't perfect, just  _ better,  _ but he felt relieved all the same to be able to focus without his mind catching on something and wandering. “For what it's worth, I cast my lot with yours.” Ardbert shifted in place, seeming a little anxious at his own words, but he spoke them with total conviction. “If you need a push, I'll be right there behind you; if you lose control, I'll do my best to stop you.”

“Thanks.” Aden took another heavy breath, which wasn’t any easier through his ragged throat. He didn’t know what Ardbert could do, but just as in Kholusia his presence and his promise made it  _ feel _ like whatever happened, at least Aden wouldn’t be  _ alone. _

His ears perked at a soft sound and a vague but familiar  _ pop _ of aether. Aden turned his head and looked up in time to suppress a flinch as Feo Ul buzzed him. They stopped about a fulm from his face, all but shouting, "I was worried you were up here all alone, brooding and fretting and wallowing in your woes. But look at you─grinning at nothing like a pollen-drunk pixie!" They planted their hands on their hips and leaned forward, making a show of examining him with a dissatisfied sound. "Look at what you've done to your aether! It's a mess! And you have cracks running all through that pretty soul of yours!" Aden looked back to Ardbert for help but the man was gone--or at least no longer visible. 

His obvious casting about for help apparently changed Feo Ul's tone, and they cooed, "My poor little sapling. Whatever am I to do with you? Shall I yield up my throne? You could claim it─cut ties with the mortal world, hide away in the castle…" As he looked back, terrible temptation bubbled up in him as it had after he defeated the previous Titania. "It won't fix the problem...but would it really matter? If any pesky heroes come calling with steel and magic, all of Il Mheg will rise up in your defense." If he sealed himself away it might buy the others time to find a way to  _ dispose  _ of him. "My crown and scepter are yours...if you want them." ...It wouldn't fix  _ his _ problem.

“But not the dress?” He spoke softly to go easy on his throat, managing a weak smile for Feo Ul. “Or the shoes?”

Wide eyes blinked at him in surprise, and then Feo Ul zipped up to twirl a little circle in the air. “No! Your shoulders are too broad for a pretty dress, and you’d break the shoes  _ jumping _ on something! Absolutely not!” They drifted back down, grinning. “I knew before I asked that you'd never ever heed such a wicked suggestion! And besides, what would become of my precious and ephemeral flower?” Aden looked out over the countryside as Feo Ul continued. Everything they said was true--he had no idea what to do, what he  _ could _ do, but he had to do  _ something _ . Perhaps even if it was the wrong thing. On the Source he always acted with certainty and conviction and the prospect of his own death was sometimes  _ welcome _ , but never an obstacle. But it wasn’t  _ his _ life on the line--it was the Exarch’s, and the thousands of people who’d taken sanctuary in the shadow of the Tower, and the thousands more in the other regions of Norvrandt. Feo Ul spun a little circle around him, drawing him from his reverie and beckoning him to follow over to the other side, overlooking the Crystarium.

“Stand very, very still. Think not of where you need to go, but where you are right now at this moment. At this time, in this place…” They stood in the very spot he’d sat so many nights with the Exarch--G’raha-- _ had it hurt him _ to hide the truth? How had it felt to sit there and listen to Aden talk about  _ him _ like he was  _ dead _ ? “Our friend of crystal. From shadowed hood he watched you go, his ruby eyes with warmth aglow. See yourself as he saw you, and that shall be the clearest clue."

Aden shook his head. "I can't. I don't…" How to explain to them? The Exarch saw the best parts of him, things he'd deliberately hidden from his own view--but G'raha had been a bright mirror to his reserved darkness, and knew where to look.

Feo Ul tilted their head, looking on him with a gentle smile. "You stand in his garden, dear sapling. Ask his flowers what they know, and you will surely find an answer." Aden's head snapped up, meeting Feo Ul's gaze.  _ That _ was something he could do. And perhaps in there he'd find an answer for what he could, what he  _ should  _ do. "But what will you do with it, I wonder...?"

Perhaps he'd find a way to make a move that  _ didn't  _ result in the Exarch's death.

* * *

In the span of two bells Aden said the words, “Tell me everything you know about the Crystal Exarch,” so many times he lost track. Everyone described a different piece of a familiar image: generous, compassionate, clever--but one.  _ One _ person, he discovered, knew a side of the Exarch--of  _ G’raha _ \--he had  _ never _ seen. On his way out of the city Aden stopped to catch his breath, weary to his bones and aching from walking around all day after spending just over a fortnight unconscious. Gnawing hunger had returned too, but at the mere thought of food he tasted plastery white bile. His thoughts caught on that sensation while he stood watching the leaves of the trees in their utter stillness, the heavy oppression of the ambient aether pressing down on him. If he just rested…

Aden forced himself to start moving again, because if he sat down he  _ would not get back up _ . The outpost wasn’t far, but it felt like malms before he mounted the stairs with heavy steps and found himself in shade. “Lyna.” His voice had grown even more raspy, but he lacked the energy to care overmuch.

The guard captain abruptly turned, relief washing across her stoic features for one unguarded moment. “Aden, I was not told you had awoken!” He gave her a stiff little nod, drawing just slightly closer than polite conversation distance because he knew he couldn’t speak loudly for long. “A welcome surprise. Now, if only the Exarch was returned to us... He was taken by this rival of yours, was he not?”

_ Rival _ was a bit generous, but that’d be no comfort to Lyna. “Yeah.” The details would only upset her, as Ardbert had pointed out about his condition earlier. 

“Your companions mentioned they had an idea of where to find him... and so I bristled when they asked for patience. I did not understand their hesitation...until I saw that you had fallen.” She crossed her arms, looking down in a strange mix of anxiety and contrition. “Only then did I realize that I had no business rushing ahead.”

_ The Tempest _ meant very little to Aden--he hadn’t studied Norvrandt’s geography extensively, and only knew with confidence it wasn’t anywhere in Lakeland. By now the Scions had surely figured out  _ where _ , so the issue must be  _ how to get there _ . “He was smart to take the Exarch,” Aden said. “Together… I don’t think he’d stand a chance.”

Lyna  _ smiled _ , still looking down, and after a long moment of silence Aden thought he saw moisture gathering on her long lashes. Before he could say anything she looked up, gaze searching his face. “When I was a child,” she began, voice soft and rough with restrained emotion, “the Exarch told me stories of great heroes. Legends from his mysterious homeland. They were so detailed, the people so full of life, I believed they were real. One hero in particular he spoke of with great fondness, and a light in his eyes I never saw otherwise. When I was old enough to understand such things I thought,  _ this is what love looks like. _ When things seemed darkest, or when he seemed sad, I always wished that hero would come and chase our troubles away, and sweep him off his feet and make him happy in the way he made so many others happy.” Aden straightened out of his tired slouch, tail stilling behind him. “As I grew I realized they were nothing more than stories… until I saw the two of you together.” She looked away, blinking away tears, and beneath the placid light Aden dimly felt pressure on that cold, heavy stone where his heart should be. He held himself in tension, everything inside  _ tight _ . “I know not how, but here you are, right out of his stories.”

Aden bit back a knee-jerk  _ What did he say?  _ He had an idea after their conversation on the cliff in Kholusia, and he couldn’t bear to hear those words again.  _ We knew each other _ but how would he explain without explaining  _ everything _ ? While he stood there unable to respond she said, “Some childish part of me wants to believe everything will be alright… but I know we must  _ work _ for it to be so.” She reached into a pouch at her belt. “ In the moments before he left to join you in Kholusia, the Exarch entrusted me with a key. It opens a door in the Ocular, to a chamber known as the “Umbilicus.” This room is the heart of the tower, into which only the Exarch himself is permitted to enter….”

* * *

Without the Exarch present the hum of the Tower sounded strange and alien rather than comforting. Aden spent long enough waiting for Lyna to unlock the Umbilicus that he picked out the individual strains of sound, the tension in the aether, and decided it wasn’t  _ just _ a matter of perception--the Tower recognized his absence… or perhaps his distress, assuming he yet lived. With the pale haze creeping back into his mind Aden nearly lost himself in those sounds, save he felt a hand on his shoulder and the fog rolled back from his mind. He didn’t look or speak to Ardbert as Lyna chose that moment to return, but he willed his gratitude, as if the shade could somehow feel it across that strange connection between them.

When she reached him Lyna paused, regarding him with scrutiny once more, and Aden could only imagine how he must look by now. “I have unlocked the door to the Umbilicus. You are free to enter.” He wondered if she could tell--surely others had figured it out, and he wondered if they humored him because he still seemed to have his wits about him, not knowing he already stood on the edge. “Once you have what you require, I'll see it sealed once more. Until then, I will remain without.” She gave him a Crystarium salute and left him alone in the Ocular.

“Come on,” Aden murmured. The hand slipped from his shoulder and he glanced to his side finally. Ardbert fell into step and they entered the Umbilicus together. A soft sound of surprise pulled itself out of Aden’s throat at the sight of the room--piles and piles of books and boxes of ephemera and strange objects reminded him of the inside of G’raha’s tent during their time with the expedition. It might look like a mess to anyone else, but there was a system here only G’raha’s might understand, controlled chaos, and though he couldn’t specifically  _ know _ it he had the feeling of it as he approached a pile of books, trailing his fingers over their spines. Every available surface was covered in research materials, even the chairs, and Aden easily pictured him pacing around with a book in hand, never sitting, always in motion. This room  _ felt _ like G’raha, even the Tower’s eerie hum slightly more in tune here.

“What are we looking for?” 

Aden glanced across the room to find Ardbert crouched next to a stack of books, head tilted to read their spines. “I don’t know,” Aden answered. “Something--” The familiar lance of pain through his skull and tightening in his chest of an Echo vision fell upon him as the atmosphere of the room finally seeped in, and everything went a little  _ grey _ at first before he saw Urianger seated in one of the cleared off chairs, and the Exarch standing before him with his hood thrown back. Aden struggled to settle into the correct mindset to catalogue all the little details of the vision, still able to feel his body struggling in the waking world. He spared an ear for Urianger’s words, but he only had eyes for the Exarch. The only time he’d seen him unmasked Aden had been busy  _ dying _ , and now he took the time to examine him more carefully, all the little changes between  _ G'raha  _ and  _ Exarch. _

Their conversation turned to Cid’s labor and the legacy it established, and as the Exarch spoke Aden pieced together which events had led to Cid’s research--he wondered if the preliminary work on this existed even now. When the Exarch spoke of the future that was gifts within gifts offered him glimpses of that hellscape: blood-soaked, aether-starved wastelands, the shattered ruins of Ishgard, and one horrendous vision of endless gray-white ash that might’ve been Gyr Abania as seen from the air accompanied by a deep melancholic longing and the stray thought  _ his body is still out there somewhere _ \--he came back reeling to the vision of the Exarch and Urianger.

“Yet howsoever history be rewritten, thy present self was shaped by events which followed the Calamity. Should said catastrophe be averted, the very skein of thine existence will unravel. Surely thou hast foreseen this…” Surely he had. Aden knew G’raha and his attention to detail, and he did not disappoint.

“I am aware of the consequences. 'Tis for that very reason Cid and his colleagues bequeathed their legacy as an offering...and not an edict.” Aden  _ knew _ what was coming, and he watched, helpless. “To give all of oneself for the happiness of others, and with no promise of reward? 'Tis a hard thing to ask.” Aden had done just that, hadn’t he? Had his own happiness ripped from his hands time and time again and finally thrown away all the things that drove him to selfish need. Somehow G’raha had done the same--and yet it had failed both of them in the end. “Harder still for those condemned to survive in a world which pitted brother against brother. Indeed, you were right to call the execution of this plan “miraculous”─though the force which held it together was nothing so inexplicable.” In the heavy pause that followed Aden felt the building tension of emotion in the air, strong enough to leave this mark of memory. “It was him.” There was that light in the Exarch’s eyes that Lyna had spoken of, and Aden trembled under the force of it. Was this the gaze he’d turned on Aden from behind his hood, the one that made him feel for a moment like nothing else in the world existed? “The Warrior of Light has been our unbroken thread.” Such intense reverence filled the Exarch’s soft, lovely voice he sounded like a zealot, one who has given himself over totally and utterly to an idea--and that idea was  _ Aden _ and the alternate future he might create. “Where others would stumble and fall, he would rise above. Where others would break and run, he would carry on. The Warrior of Light's tale is one of unyielding bravery. To tell it was to feel courage; to hear it was to feel hope. It was a breath of inspiration in an age of suffocating shadow.” Had these strangers from the future that was spoken with the same conviction? He had his answer not long after in a gentler vision-within-a-vision: snatches of story and song and familiar places war-torn, of people laying down what little peace they had found to come together to selflessly unmake themselves that others might live. 

Outside the vision Aden felt his body seize with the twin strains of holding back the Light and enduring the Echo vision, his heart beginning to beat out of time. “He was the lodestar that brought them all together, to send their final message back through time and space...to him.” The Exarch closed his eyes, tilting his head back, a warm, gentle smile spreading across his face as he spoke. “ "The light of your legacy was our torch in the darkness. Burn bright again...and live.“ I am merely the bearer of that wish, come to ensure it is safely delivered.” No wonder the Exarch had built so beautiful a city with them as his example; no wonder they had so easily drawn together the peoples of Norvrandt to assault the very heavens. He’d done all this before, and he’d done it again.

“I knew I could trust you to choose the right path forward...even if that choice came with a heavy price.” 

Aden’s head jerked up as Urianger asked, .”...What price?” They’d already discussed that the Exarch would be undone should his plan come to fruition, the timeline from which he’d originated unraveling with the calamity averted.

“When all is said and done, and the last of the Lightwardens lies slain, I will absorb their corrupted aether. And then I will die. Knowing what I know of your companions─not to mention your champion─they will try to stop me.” He was right, Aden would--and even now he was fighting against the lingering haze of Light numbing his thoughts to figure out  _ how _ . He couldn’t save the Exarch without knowing how to stop him from doing this thing. ” But in saving one they would save none.” Aden made a pained, choked sound in his ruined throat-- _ one _ was all he needed,  _ just one _ , one to finally live, for everything to turn out right  _ just once _ \--and that would save him in truth if not from death. “Therefore I implore you to aid me in concealing my identity, and ensuring this tale ends as it must. To this end, I would have you take what I have told you of the Calamity and make of it a portent─a prophetic vision you beheld in the swirling chaos of the rift.”

“...Is this truly thy wish?” Urianger obviously had no idea who he was talking to--it was what Aden would’ve done, in spirit if not in letter.  _ Of course _ it was the Exarch’s wish. His dearest wish that Aden live--as Aden’s now was that  _ he _ live.

“History remembered the Warrior of Light, as I knew it would. And I will suffer no other to rescue the champion whose star has charted my course. I will see this tale to a happy end, my friend. There has been enough tragedy.”

Aden surfaced from the vision on his back with Ardbert hovering over him, head pressed against the cool scored crystal of the floor. His chest ached, and he tasted plastery white bile in the back of his throat, and convulsed once with a spike of white hot agony that pulled a pained gasp from him unbidden. For a moment all Aden could do was lay on the floor focusing on his breathing, on trying to find a calm center.

But there was no calm center. It’d been shot in the back while trying to save his life. He rolled onto his side before the second surge of thick white liquid filled his mouth and managed to spit it out, choking and gasping as his stomach clenched around nothing. He felt so  _ hollow _ , empty and wrung out and he needed to… to…

Aden pushed himself to hands and knees with a grunt of effort, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Take it easy,” Ardbert murmured.  _ You are in his garden _ . And even if he wasn’t here, this was his sanctum. The specter of G’raha lingered everywhere here, and  _ that _ was a comfort. Even absent he offered Aden shelter in the privacy to be weak for a while, the  _ safety _ of the tower. If he turned here, it would take some time to make his way out, and Lyna would surely rouse the guard before he could….

Aden set his jaw, pushing up unsteadily from the floor. He tried to focus on that lingering atmosphere of the Exarch’s presence. Ardbert offered him a steadying hand and Aden took it, letting the shade half pull him up. “Thanks.”

“What did you see?” Ardbert let go once he was on his feet and Aden swayed, dizzy. 

Aden slowly turned his gaze around the room, searching inside for a way to explain--instead he opted for, “Enough.” A book with a dark leather binding caught his eye, and Aden carefully made his way to the low shelf on which it sat.  _ Heavensward _ , it said. Edmont’s memoirs. He’d read them but had only seen the published copy in his visions, and he ran his fingers over the elegant binding and the gilding. The weight of it in his hand felt oddly reassuring. Aden replaced it, finding next to it a copy of his botanical survey of the Azim Steppe full of little scraps of notes and marked passages. He set the book aside for what sat on the shelf beneath: a little gray box, smartly folded and full of yellowed letters that’d been treated with an alchemical substance to preserve them.  _ I think you’d like it here, Paplymo _ \--he tucked the letter back into the box and put it down, not reading any further. He didn’t need to know Lyse’s innermost thoughts, had no right to pry into her grieving over her dearest friend. Aden opened another box, this one full of alchemically treated newspaper clippings: articles about the theater troupe in Kugane and their forays into Rabanastre; a serialized report about the war in Ala Mhigo; a sketch of him with Merrick Stormcaller at his side, talking to Raubahn in Castrum Oriens, done in a hasty style that made their conversation seem urgent; another from the rather ill-fated day of the first council meeting in Ala Mhigo--the only one he’d agreed to stand for, and others followed captured by quick hands he hadn’t noticed, all clipped from newspapers--and some he was certain  _ had not yet been made _ . There was a comic in the Doman style that bore a stylized likeness of him on the cover--he  _ definitely _ hadn’t been asked about that, and would have to quiz Hancock when next he saw the man--and one of those thrice-damned books that’d beaten him home from the Steppes about a mysterious and powerful foreign warrior’s less than family friendly (and entirely fictional) misadventures. He put the box down, unable to process it all, and found a familiar old book tucked away--his  _ favorite _ travelogue, one written by a dragoon scouting in the hinterlands some decades prior. He opened it carefully, found each individual page had been treated with that same alchemical preservative, and on the inside cover in faded ink:

_ Sweet dreams, you heroic moron. I’ll see you on the morrow. -A.D. _

He’d buried this book along with a number of letters and items from the survey team--something Wedge had suggested to defuse the terrible tension of seeing G’raha shut those doors behind him, of the sinking feeling that they'd never see him again--one of the few people who’d treated him like a  _ man _ rather than a  _ weapon _ at the time. He put the book down, staring dumbfounded at the pile of ephemera. Of course G’raha had needed to do research--to find out  _ when _ to summon him from--he’d seen that, hadn’t he, in that strange dream the Echo had visited upon him? What an idiot he’d been ignoring his instinct, the thought  _ what if it’s him _ when it’d come to him in Eulmore, and the scribblings on that sheet of paper he’d thrown away after his vision,  _ the Exarch has been to the Source. _ As his eyes unfocused, overwhelmed by all this  _ stuff _ , something small and dark tucked away beneath everything caught his attention. Aden carefully moved the books and boxes of loose papers aside to find a very small, plain wooden box, no bigger than his palm. He opened it and his heart stopped.

Inside sat a ring, dark as drachenmaille and engraved with twining branches, a small sapphire and small diamond embedded side by side. Aden choked, throat suddenly tight. He’d  _ lost _ it in Rhalgr’s Reach, the first time he fought Zenos, and thought it gone for good. But somewhere in the future  _ someone _ had found his engagement ring, and  _ somehow _ G’raha knew it for what it was. He set the box down on top of the shelf to tug off his glove and slipped the ring onto his finger, ran his thumb over the cool metal in what had once been a reassuring gesture.

Aden collapsed heavily into a seated position on the crystal floor and stared at the room.  _ You are in his garden _ . The very center of it, perhaps, the seat of a hundred-year obsession with saving his life. _ _ Who had he thought of when he bound himself to the tower and ruined his flesh in exchange for  _ enough time _ ? Had he thought then,  _ I’ll see you on the morrow?  _ Aden couldn’t countenance that level of dedication, even faced with all the proof of it. They had known each other for a matter of  _ moons  _ while exploring the tower, and yet…

Five years ago it would've angered him, this invasion of privacy. Two years ago it would have unnerved him, such all-consuming dedication. Scarce moons and it would have terrified him, with Zenos' obsession still fresh in his mind. Yet now all he felt was a melancholic sorrow, a different kind of hollowness next to the gnawing ache of the light.

The Exarch had clearly faced a world without Aden's lasting mark and  _ denied  _ it. He had given everything of himself to secure a new future, a happier one, and though he had meant to die for it first he had  _ lived _ for it. He had surrendered himself wholly to Aden with zealous conviction, even with Aden long dead and gone.

And Aden found he could do nothing less. Despite the obfuscation and their terrible circumstances, the Exarch had offered him the time and peace to begin healing from-- _ everything _ , and in every word and deed proven he was not so alone as he’d thought all these years. Even if it were too late to save G'raha, he would ensure the man's faith had not been misplaced. He swallowed back white bile, rubbing his thumb against the cool metal of the ring.

No, that would not be enough. His hands clenched into loose fists, the ring heavy against his skin.  _ I won’t lose him again.  _ “Fray,” he called out, voice breaking.

“Aden?”

_ I’m here.  _ He sounded distant, still set to the task they’d agreed on in Il Mheg.

“It’s time.”

“Who are you talking to?” 

Aden looked up just as Ardbert crouched down next to him, eyes wide and lips drawn into a thin line of worry. “It’s complicated,” he said. “Something weird might happen in the next few minutes. Just let it. But if I start to turn….” 

“I’ll figure something out.” Ardbert nodded, and clapped a hand on Aden’s shoulder.

Aden gave him a grateful smile, small thing that it was, and shifted around to lean against the bookshelf before he closed his eyes, worrying at the ring on his finger. “Fray.”

Suddenly he stood in the rooftop courtyard of the Vault before the great doors that closed off the airship dock. Fray stood sentinel at the top of the stairs, wearing the wing-styled drachenmaille Aden had once cast aside as overwrought, icy sword held point-down and both hands braced upon it. Behind him frost had layered over the doors several ilms thick. There were no  _ bodies _ this time, at least, and Aden strode up to him, footfalls echoing in the empty silence. He stopped at the base of the stairs and called up, “You know why I’m here.”

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Fray’s gaze flicked down, the mismatched eyes visible behind his helm for once.

“I have to be,” Aden answered. “I can’t do this missing parts of myself. I need you, and I need… everything else.”

Fray made a low, rumbling sound of consideration, muffled slightly by his armor. “You’re correct. The Light’s too good at muting our anger, and suppressing our determination. We need something stronger to fuel the dark fire, and to remain ourself. You know you must face what lies behind these doors first, and what it will do to you.”

“I don’t know what it’ll do to me.” Aden heaved a deep sigh--this was so cut off he couldn’t even  _ dread _ it. “That was the point.”

With a short, soft huff of a laugh Fray sheathed his sword and turned to the doors. “But someone is watching over you. Approach.”

“I trust him,” Aden said as he mounted the stairs. “Whatever happens, he’ll manage.”

Fray removed his helm, tossing it aside, and Aden stood side by side with a perfect image of himself at the top of the stairs. That mirror cast his gaze down, smirking slightly. “I wish I could meet him. Ardbert. I think we’d get along.” Fray raised his hands to the doors, and ice screeched and cracked as they shuddered open.

_ “You… you are unharmed?”  _

_ His knees hit the cold stone of the airship launch so hard he feels it in his teeth, but it’s meaningless around the numb disbelief tingling through his limbs. Haurchefant lays before him, shattered rings of maille around an impossibly gaping wound, the slick, dark red and other hideous colors of the parts of a man not meant to see the light of day in plain view. How much of him is missing. Just eat away by that lance of aether. The stark, sick realization in the part of his mind that’s always analyzing, that won’t shut up: healing can’t fix something that isn’t there any more. Can’t give you back an arm. Can’t restore your blood. Or your… _

_ “F-forgive me….”  _

_ Aymeric grimaces in pain as he maneuvers Haurchefant to rest against his legs, heedless of the blood that’s godsdamn everywhere. How can a man have this much blood in him, how can a man have this much blood out of him … It doesn’t matter. He locks his gaze to Haurchefant’s--too late, he thinks. Too late. Steel is clouding over with the end that must come. _

_ “I could not bear the thought of… of…”  _

_ Motion catches his eye, fingers twitching in what seems to be a spasm, then lifting, reaching for him. Aden seizes that hand like a drowning man reaching for a line--like he’s the one dying. He is. He wraps both hands around Haurchefant’s in a vice grip, the ring under his gauntlet digging in painfully. Haurchefant’s fingers wrap around one hand weakly, the press of his touch light as a dying kiss. “Stay with me,” Aden begs, fighting numb disbelief--like he didn’t then. No, this was where he’d first  _ truly _ known Fray’s touch, and perhaps it would’ve helped--but it’d terrified him, and he’d embraced the familiar rage of Nidhogg. Every time he’d relived this moment he’d railed at himself to  _ say _ something, to scream and curse his fate,  _

_ “Oh… do not look at me so.” _

_ “Don’t say it,” but he would--he had--those treacherous words that would echo in Aden’s head forevermore. Haurchefant’s grip grows lax and Aden’s grows tighter, holding on to him for dear life. _

_ “A smile better suits a hero....” _

_ “I love you,” Aden says through tears, voice ugly and harsh, but it’s the only way he can smile--to give Haurchefant what he wants--even as he knows he’ll never smile like this again. If a smile suits a hero, what right has he to it? A hero would save the man he loves--a hero would weep and rage, not sit here numbly--and as he is no hero, he has no right to smile ever again. _

_ The light goes out of Haurchefant’s eyes, his body lax against Aymeric’s grip, and this time--unlike then--Aden  _ screams _ . He will not borrow the enduring grief and rage of a great wyrm, he will feel his own, no less terrible and no less fierce. He curls over Haurchefant, still grasps Haurchefant’s hand tightly in his, sobbing with his whole body until he can’t breathe, presses his forehead against the chainmail over Haurchefant’s breast, where his heart lies. He cries until he has no more tears, dry sobs wracking his body. There is no duty this time, there is no pressing need to to get Aymeric to a healer, there is no blinding rage borrowed from outside to steal away his own ability to feel--there is only the all consuming grief he has actively denied for years, still fresh and new as the day it happened. _

_ There is no time here in the hall of memory, and he cries as long as he needs to. _

Aden lifted his head from Haurchefant’s breast to find himself kneeling not on cold stone, but in deep snow, Fray before him, arms wrapped around him as best he could manage in the awkward position. Fray’s embrace shifted, hands gripping Aden’s upper arms and helping him upright. “Done?”

“For now.” Aden reached up with one hand and wiped slushy half-frozen tears from his eyes. He’d never be done, but he needed to move on--and that was why they were here. The ring felt heavy and unfamiliar on his hand after so long. 

Fray stood first and offered him a hand up. Aden took it and as he rose realized they stood on the cliff overlooking Whitebrim. Inside the fortifications he spied himself squaring off against Fray, a ring of knights watching warily. He’d never asked what they saw--if he’d been swinging at air, or fighting himself or if Fray had been  _ real _ \--but he wondered now.

Fray clapped his shoulder. “Come on.” Together they made their way down the road, past Whitebrim, past King Behemoth’s den, until finally they stood before the imposing face of Snowcloak, glacier luminous with ice aspected aether as if it were all one giant crystal--it wasn’t yet, though it might be on the way there. They picked their way through the ledges along one side as far as they could, then scaled what remained of the cliff. Once there’d been a path on top cut by heretics, but with Ysayle gone they had no reason to come here any longer, and the snow had long ago covered it. He paused for a moment at the top of the glacier, looking out over the unnaturally smooth ice that filled what had once been a riverbed--little in Ishgard followed the natural order of things now, and this especially. Aden regretted letting Nidhogg’s song fill his heart for so long, and not least of all that he’d felt so little when Ysayle fell. If he were honest with himself they’d been--friends. He could think that of her, as her name was one of those inscribed across the cold, heavy stone where his heart should be.

“Aden.” He turned back at Fray’s gentle voice, for a moment met his own mismatched eyes--softer than he’d seen them in a mirror in a very long time. He nodded and followed after.

They walked so long shadows switched sides as the sun tracked across the sky, Azeyma’s light warming Aden’s dark armor in the middle of the day. Eventually they cut towards the cliff edge and climbed down along a thin path into the early twilight of a grove of massive red barked pine trees of the size one found in the deepest parts of the Black Shroud. The snow here lay thick and fresh unlike that atop the glacier, and outside the edges of the boughs they sank up to their knees, each of them bracing the other to make progress. Finally they crossed into the still darkness beneath heavy boughs and stared out at the nigh endless field of mossy, snow-spattered trees.

“Do you remember the way?” Fray asked.

“No.”

“Good.” Fray gestured for him to go first.

Aden paid more mind to the motion of walking than the path. The crunch of deep snow beneath his boots echoed between trees, breath heavy with effort but it did not mist in the air before him. Alongside the heavy beat of his pulse it cut an uneven counterpoint to the stillness: thump, crunch, heave, all slightly out of sync. Beyond it a faint wind stirred the upper boughs, a distant susurrus and the occasional creak of brittle limbs. One dumped snow somewhere in the distance, the sound muffled. Afterwards he smelled sweet, sharp pine and the high, clean scent of snow. It had been a long time since he walked in this grove in the waking world, but the majesty of it made such an impression on him he kept the memory close to his heart. It was a secret known only to a select few, and that made it the perfect place to hide something precious, or something he wished never to see again. And yet here he was tracking it down.

“I’d like to meet him, too,” Fray said behind him, breath equally heavy. “...G’raha. The Exarch. Whatever he is now--he was before me. I’ve felt his magic, but…”

_ Not his touch _ . Aden closed his eyes, tamping down his bitterness. Fray guarded what he’d left here, and perhaps it would be easier to let the shade have control of him--to sink into darkness and simply  _ not feel _ . Fray would do all the things that needed doing, keep all the promises Aden made, and say and do all the things he never could. They were one and the same, and forever apart. He knew Fray’s desires--they were all the ones he wouldn’t admit to himself. “That’s why we’re here,” Aden said.

“It won’t be the same.” He glanced back and found Fray looking out into the woods mournfully.

They continued in silence once more, the soft sounds of eternal winter their only company but each other--him _ self _ \--their steps in time, their breaths in time. Full dark fell and only the depth of the snow prevented them from stumbling over tree roots. Still the woods stretched on, even further than they did in the waking world. At length they came to a clearing with an old shrine to some absent elemental, stones arranged in a crude altar. They paused and looked up past snow-laden boughs to glittering stars, pebbles of ice bobbing in the deep pool of night.

“This is more mine than yours now,” Fray said, voice wavering. “You threw it away. It doesn’t seem right you should take it after so long.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Fray tore his gaze from the heavens at the same time as Aden, and they looked at each other for a long while in the dim light reflecting off the snow. “You’ll understand.”

They trekked up to the shrine, circling around it while looking for a conspicuous absence among the rocks of the cairn. More snow had fallen, nearly burying it, and while they cleared it off they both felt guilty for disturbing the solitude of this place. At length Aden was the one who found the gap and he murmured, “Here.” Then he turned directly away from the altar and counted paces.

Aden stopped beneath the boughs of a particularly ancient tree, each curl of moss in the craggy bark strewn with tiny drifts of snow. Fray joined him, looking down at the featureless snow beneath them, and nervous adrenaline ticked up inside him.

“You’ve come too far to turn back.”

Aden nodded at the sound of his own voice, gentle but firm--the way he’d once spoken reassuringly to an old friend. He knelt down and began digging with his hands, sweeping back snow from a broad area. A sigh sounded overhead seconds before a shovel blade slammed into the snow not an ilm from his fingers, and he slowly tilted back his head to glower up at Fray.

“Idiot.” Fray let go of the shovel, his own in his other hand, and Aden stood to grab it. Together they cut into the snow, sending powder flying and chipping through icy layers. The hole grew too deep to continue without widening so they took their time excavating enough room to stand Just as they dug too deep to see their work the moon peeked through the heavy boughs of the trees, reflecting ethereal silver off the snow. “Tell me about them.”

Aden paused mid-throw, looking up at Fray in confusion. After a moment Fray mirrored his pose, though he bore an expression of mockery. “You know everything I know.”

“That doesn’t matter. I want to hear you talk about them anyroad.”

Where to start? The beginning, perhaps--it’d make more sense that way. “C’shala.” As he spoke he felt the name scribed under his fingers, nearly worn away on the stone. “My birth mother. I don’t know what happened to her--I only know that she left my father with me, and didn’t return when he went looking. Everything else I know I learned from ma and mam. I don’t know why she left, I don’t know why she didn’t come back--maybe she’s dead. Maybe she decided she didn’t want me after all.” The next stab of the shovel into hard packed snow felt strangely cathartic. “Lior. My father. I remember his laugh, and the way everything seemed like it’d be alright when he hugged me--and the gleam of his spear, and the weight of his helm. I remember thinking he was a hero, but I was young. I don’t know who put the idea in my head.” He flung the snow a little harder than he meant to, but it seemed to mirror his own feeling of having been thrown away. “I don’t remember much else, because I was too young when he sent me away to ma and mam. I don’t know why. And since no one knows where he went, I’ll never know.”

He exhaled heavily--they hurt, perhaps most of all, but they were old, familiar wounds. He’d locked them away more as a  _ convenience _ than anything. Next the names of some dozen or so Scions spilled from his lips--not all of them had been friends, but they’d all in some way been  _ his _ . “Livia sas Junius killed them on Gaius’ orders. I had to haul their bodies out of the Waking Sands myself, because no one was left to do it.” He slammed the shovel into the snow as he had into the hard baked earth of Thanalan when he helped dig their graves--he’d had to. He couldn’t watch from the church while someone else did it.

“Moenbryda.” Aden paused, shovel blade half in snow. He blinked and he saw her laying on the floor, teeth grit in determination, and he had to make a choice. He’d always wondered if it was the right one--but inevitably it’d been a  _ pointless _ choice, as he’d lost Minfilia not long after. “She was a Sharlayan scholar. I didn’t know her very long, but we hit it off--she didn’t let up, tried to find common ground, and treated me like I was a peer, not hired muscle.” What did they do now, treat him like they were  _ afraid _ of him? Sometimes, but more often like he was merely  _ there _ , a tool. Or they had, anyroad. Things had been different lately in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “She was killed by an Ascian.”

“G’raha Tia.” His voice wavered, and he inhaled heavily, searing cold filling his lungs. Fray continued to dig. “He was the best friend I’ve ever had. He’d been abandoned too, in a way--he had trouble making friends, too, though he went about it differently--we liked the same books--...and he wanted to prove himself as an adventurer as well as a scholar, whereas I’d gone the other way round. There was nothing I wanted more than to walk out of that expedition with him by my side, but he sealed himself away in the Tower to keep it from falling into the wrong hands.” Aden looked up, blinking back sudden wetness at the corners of his eyes. Fray stopped and met his gaze, reached across the distance to settle a hand on his shoulder. “I wondered for a long time if I would’ve just gotten him killed pushing him to chase his ambition, if things were better this way--or if everything would be different. Now I know… he’s more than he ever believed then. He’s stronger than I’ve  _ ever _ been. He’s--” Aden slammed his shovel into the ground once more and struck hard ice. He quickly hauled the snow to the side, and Fray joined him in frantically brushing aside snow until they saw pure, clear ice marred by deep stress cracks and an especially large stone from the cairn nearly a yalm down.

“I had to,” Fray explained. “It’d melted its way through almost all of the ice. I’ve been holding it here, pushing myself into the cracks to keep the heat at bay. This was the only way to be sure, if you needed to call on me.”

“I don’t suppose we have enough time to let it melt its way out,” Aden mumbled, tapping the blade of his shovel against the ice anxiously.

“Not unless you want to be here another fortnight.”

“ _ Damn _ .” Aden tested the ice with the shovel, but he didn’t make a dent. “I can’t get enough height here with the trees.”

“You did that on purpose,” Fray pointed out.

“I’m no mage,” 

“No, but you’re the  _ godsdamned Warrior of Light _ .” Fray hauled himself up out of the pit they’d dug in the snow, and crossed his arms to lean on the handle of his shovel. “You put it in there, you can get it out.”

Aden glowered up at him for a moment, and Fray grinned and made a rude gesture in response. With a soft, flat, disgruntled noise Aden looked down at the ice and began pacing around the small area they’d cleared. He could barely make out the stone in the dimness down here, the moon’s light availing them little in so deep a pit. Aden looked up, doing the calculations in his head--it wasn’t enough room to generate any heat or to create enough of an impact to break through that much ice, even with the depth of the pit added. There’d be no fallen wood here because in the sanctuary of his mind the snow had covered all of it, and burning his way through with mundane fire would take too long anyroad. He could perhaps change the nature of his dragon’s breath temporarily, but he’d be struggling against the perceived aether of this place--and by extension his own perception of the changed aether of all Coerthas. It was his best option, though. Aden tossed his shovel up over the side and drew his spear, squaring himself up with the stone beneath the ice, and called on the song that thrummed through his veins. It rose sluggishly through the fog of Light, weak without adrenaline and bloodlust fueling it, snagged on the agony of his newfound grief with a ragged cry, one Aden couldn’t help but give voice to. The boughs shook loose their snow with the force of his song while Fray watched placidly, unperturbed. Carefully, and with agonizing slowness, Aden stoked the song until he managed enough strength to sheathe himself in scales of aether. Cold fire rushed down his spear, aether a brilliant blue, carefully restrained--if it met ice he would only compound his problems. Instead he closed his eyes and concentrated hard on the  _ memory _ of the warmth he’d tried to shut away. He only knew it in brief snatches of anger now, the only passion left to him, so he focused on that--on the rage that’d driven him back to his feet to face Emet-Selch, the absolute  _ certainty _ that he’d not only tear the Exarch from his grasp but  _ everything _ left to him. It wasn’t enough, though, only took the searing edge off the cold.

He remembered instead his pride in Ryne when she took a stand against Ran’jit, the searing touch of Minfilia’s hand against his breastbone and the white heat of her words. The gentle warmth of the completed lute in his hands, and the spark against the chill of sitting side by side with the Exarch on the watchtower. He remembered the heat in his blood fighting alongside him in Holminster, the burning satisfaction of finding someone who could  _ truly _ keep pace, someone who slotted  _ perfectly _ into this most intimate, bloody aspect of his life without fear. He remembered the twin warmth and coolness of his touch in his rooms, and the all-consuming blaze of  _ need  _ with which he’d returned their kiss. He remembered that sweet sunset warmth of the Exarch’s magic, the very last heat of day reaching out to ease his hurts in the gentlest way he’d ever been healed.

True fire bloomed across his spear as Aden opened his eyes, so blazing hot Aden set his jaw against it, his own purposeful overaspect--the piercing, absolute cold of this place and what he’d done to himself with it--warring with fire, trying to tear away each of those warm memories. But that sunset warmth it could not take, the gentle impression of it burned into his very  _ soul _ by now. He thrust his spear down, the tip barely piercing the ice. Fire rushed down, seeking out every gap and crack, blazing along all those stress lines and lashing across the surface of that cold, heavy stone. He cried out as he  _ felt _ it in his own breast, the sudden heat pooling in each of the names writ upon the stone and biting down through the cracks. Even as it ached, as it felt it might burn right through him he kept going until enough ice had melted and he ripped his spear away, dissipating the aether and the song with it. Aden looked up at Fray, heaving for breath, and the shade nodded at him. “Let’s get to it.”

Fray hopped back down while Aden slung his spear, and together they knelt over the hole, reaching down and wiggling their fingers beneath the scalding hot stone. So close their ears brushed, and Aden held his breath for a moment. He knew what he’d buried here-- _ all _ of it. And he’d  _ never _ be able to do this to himself again and survive what came after.

“Aden.” He looked up at that firm, gentle tone--a voice he hadn’t heard from himself in a long time, though he’d  _ nearly _ used it with Ryne. His own gaze met him, pupils wide with the dark in his mismatched eyes. “I believe in you. I always have. We wouldn’t be where we are now if I hadn’t.”

“I know.” He couldn’t meet his own eyes, shamed by what he’d done to himself. It’d felt so necessary at the time--and maybe it had been. Now it  _ crippled _ him. Already he felt power thrumming through the stone beneath his hands.

“You can do this.” Aden closed his eyes. Had he ever been so kind to himself? Was it really kindness,  _ encouraging _ him to unearth all this pain in waiting? He took a deep breath and heaved at the stone, and Fray joined him. It was heavier than its size suggested and they struggled for the awkward position, for overextending themselves. Aden’s back screamed at the effort, but slowly,  _ slowly _ it rose, and they cleared the ice and together threw it aside. He blinked rapidly, looking to Fray for guidance when nothing happened right away, but Fray merely leaned in, heaving for breath, and pressed his forehead to Aden’s. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

Aden jerked to awareness with Ardbert kneeling in front of him. “Thank the gods! You had me worried for a while there.” He took a deep breath, free of familiar, comforting weight, and anticipation rose. Another, and an unfamiliar, half  _ giddy _ feeling rolled over him. Warmth bloomed in him like a sudden, miraculous spring, a fullness fit to burst out of his ribcage that had lain buried for a long, long time. He felt Fray pick up the warmth of it and burn away the haze of Light in his mind like sun on fog. Aden covered his mouth before a strange, sharp sound could escape him. He’d forgotten what  _ love _ felt like, only remembered the pain of it, but he felt like he could run laps around the Crystarium, his half-broken body and the transformation lurking beneath his skin be damned. If anything his anger burned all the brighter for it--Aden pushed to his feet, no longer able to abide idleness. He clenched his hands into fists, the ring digging into his skin. “Careful, now,” Ardbert reminded him, rising to his feet as well. “If you lose control again, the Light could claim you for good. Although it's probably only a matter of time before you succumb to the change, in any case.”

“I don’t have time to worry about a sure thing,” Aden said, uncurling his fists and snatching his glove from the top of the shelf. He turned for the door and gestured. “Come on.”

Through their strange tether Aden felt Ardbert remain in place. “What do you mean to do?”

Aden stopped at the stairs, turning back. He glanced around the room, letting that lingering presence sink in one last time. “I’m going to save the Exarch." He didn’t know how, but he’d figure it out as he went--and with how much time had passed he couldn’t wait a second longer.

“The Ascian mentioned the Tempest, did he not?” Aden nodded, and Ardbert continued, “That's “the stormy seas around Kholusia” to you. His lair must be down there somewhere, hidden beneath the waves.”

“I’ll have to remember to thank the Kojin next time I’m in the Ruby Sea.” Aden turned back to the door, and this time Ardbert followed nearly in lockstep. He tugged his glove back on as they met up with Lyna outside and as he passed Aden called, “I’m going to get your grandfather.” Gods, it felt like a grand  _ joke _ to call G’raha that--he couldn’t wait to say it to his face. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

* * *

Aden returned to his rooms in a much more clear-headed state than he’d left, and found his armored jacket still torn apart and bloody. The dampeners were blackened and cracked, too--someone had retrieved them but they hadn’t been fixed. Only one person could even  _ attempt _ that, and they didn’t have time to send the dampeners back to the Source and wait. The armor he’d received from the nu mou was still in good repair, and light enough that he’d chance getting soaked in it. While he changed Ardbert apprised him of the details of the Tempest, scant as they were, and the challenges of traveling there. “So amaro to Kholusia,” Aden said, “and we’ll figure something out from there.”

“You’ve met the Ondo, haven’t you?” Ardbert shifted anxiously near the window in what had become his customary place--something about his presence felt strangely  _ settled _ there. When Aden made a soft, affirmative noise he continued. “If anyone can get you down there, it’ll be them. We find them, we find our way down.”

It wasn’t quite a  _ plan _ , but it was enough to start. By the time they made their way across the city to the amaro launch Aden’s newfound energy flagged--he had to reserve Fray’s strength,  _ his _ strength _ ,  _ for when he really needed it. Stumbling about town in a daze without his dampeners most of the day before enduring a lengthy Echo vision and the strain of casting aside that cold, heavy stone where his heart should have been was certainly  _ not _ conserving his strength--but he was alone, the Scions fled to the far corners of the world looking for an answer to the problem one onze of willpower from ripping itself out of his skin. He felt it even as he spoke to the zun manning the counter, a yet-formless horror of pure aether slowly eating away at his body and soul. Searing-bright pain spread through his chest like cracks across ice and Aden caught himself with one arm against the counter as it stole his breath. Everything went gray, his ears full of staticky fuzz. Aden set his jaw against the pain, forced himself to breathe calmly.

“...have found thee.” Aden’s ears flicked back and immediately fell into a pin, pained grimace shifting into a snarl as he turned, one arm still braced against the counter.  _ Urianger _ stood at the head of the Scions, and the Echo offered a counterpoint to the pain,  _ unease/relief/trepidation _ skittering along the inside of his skull under Urianger’s voice. Aden shuddered; it was a disorienting, uncomfortable feeling alongside the feeling of shattering apart. “Word reached us of thy recovery, and thus did we gather with all haste.” His eyes narrowed under Urianger’s scrutiny, and the pain finally subsided enough to permit him to straighten.  _ Revelation _ . Oh, that was such a precise emotion, and  _ strange _ to feel through the Echo. “By thy looks, I gather thou has gleaned that which I came to tell the.”

“That depends,” Aden grit out through his worn throat. Behind Urianger, Ryne did nothing to disguise her alarm at the sound. “On what exactly you were going to say.”

“Urianger has shared everything with us--” Aden’s ears flicked in Alphinaud’s direction, but he didn’t look, not wanting to risk the Echo zeroing in on others right now. He didn’t think he could handle that much input from his least reliable gift. “--the Exarch’s true identity and purpose.”

Urianger stepped forward until he all but towered over Aden, then dropped to his knees before him, head bowed as a subject before a monarch, awaiting judgement. “I offer no excuses. When I agreed to aid the Exarch with his plans, 'twas in full acceptance of the condemnation I would face when my duplicity was laid bare.”

“Was it?” Aden barely managed a whisper, throat tightening with a surge of familiar anger buoyed on top of  _ unfamiliar _ emotions--impending loss and grief he would not acknowledge, the promise that hung heavy on his ring finger beneath his gloves, the soaring joy that  _ G’raha wasn’t gone-- _ but he could be, he so easily could be. He took one heavy, almost lurching step forward, and fisted his hands in the fabric of Urianger’s robes, tugging him up just enough to force eye contact. “Did you have  _ any _ idea who he really was?” Aden  _ growled _ , the song rolling beneath his voice eager and possessive. “What he meant to me? Did you ever  _ pay enough attention-- _ ”

“Nay,” Urianger admitted, shaking his head, and the  _ ease _ of that admission shocked Aden. “I knew not that he was once thy boon companion until I shared with master Thancred the truth of his identity--only he recalled the name from conversation with Minfilia, many years past. But I know that he is precious to thee now..” Aden let go with a little shove, not enough to unbalance Urianger but enough to rock him in place. Urianger wasn’t his enemy, even if he’d betrayed him once again… but they’d been  _ right _ to do what they’d done, and in every instant of misdirected anger Aden proved them right. He remained there, ears pinned back and tail lashing behind him, lip curled in a snarl. ”...Yet it is not rancor but resolve that I sense in thee. Thou art fully intent upon walking thy path to its end, art thou not?”

“If I have to walk through all seven hells,” Aden growled, “I’m bringing him back here. Alive.” He’d never spoken with greater conviction in his life, and the realization didn’t shock him. Anger  _ burned _ in his chest, the fine edge of dark power that fed on it an eager, swirling mass that filled him, cowing the captive Light for a moment.

_ Resolve _ , the Echo whispered, and Aden grimaced again--he didn’t want to feel it from  _ Urianger _ of all people, not after this. “If thou canst forgive my deception─or, failing that, set aside thy displeasure for a time─I do beg leave to follow thee. What strength and wisdom I possess are thine to command.”

Aden glowered down at him for a long, tense moment, hands balling into fists beside him. Urianger braced himself for the strike he had earned--and that never came. “You’re forgiven,” Aden grit out, worn voice breaking. “Let’s go.”

Urianger stood from his position of prostration and laid one hand to his breast, bowing to Aden. “...I thank thee. Doubt not but that I will do all in my power to repay thy kindness, and fulfill the Exarch's wishes.”

“I'm sorry but...I don't think this is a good idea.” Aden’s ears shifted out of their pin at Ryne’s voice. He bristled at the plea that followed, preparing gentle reproach--he didn’t know how long he had, and if he meant to do this he had to start  _ now _ \--but Alisaie’s impassioned shout pre-empted him.

Alisaie shouted out her frustrations, all her pain, so intense even Aden’s half-broken Echo picked up on her roiling emotions. “We've all searched high and low for an answer! And every one of us came back empty-handed!” He looked away, unable to watch her tears, but as he glanced between the other Scions the Echo caught whispers of emotion he hadn’t expected. “I am not about to stand in his way now─not after failing him in his hour of need! No, the least we can do is…”

Aden stiffened as Alphinaud spoke next, barely hearing his words. He knew the twins cared deeply, and he had bonded with Ryne in spite of locking his heart away. As his gaze drifted across the others the Echo whispered each of them looked on him not with worry that he may change and their ally might become a threat, nor with pity, but a genuine, abiding sorrow of impending loss--and the calm resolve of support. Y’shtola’s approach in Fanow, and Thancred’s immediate leap to his side in Malikkah’s Well--perhaps they had not been utilitarian. He’d been an idiot, too caught up in his own vision of himself and his own suffering to see them reaching out for what it was. They’d changed since last he saw them before arriving on the First, and it’d been so short a time for him he scarcely considered the possibility--but it’d been  _ years _ for them. Years preparing the way for his coming, patiently seeing to the needs of this star and under the Exarch’s sphere of influence--perhaps coming to see him, finally, as the Exarch saw him. As they continued on Aden turned over a hundred different scenarios in his head, interactions he’d had with the Scions since arriving, picking them apart for things he’d missed. 

“Lead and we shall follow,” Y’shtola offered. “If there is any hope to be found, then we will surely find it at your side.” He felt soft admiration under her words, the unyielding will to  _ help. _

“Are we all in agreement, then?” A soft push from Thancred towards Ryne--resolve, too, but less fiery than Y’shtola’s, subtler and more morphic. It suited someone who had learned so many styles of war and worn so many faces.

Aden looked between them, ears shifting from one to another,  _ overwhelmed. _ But when practically the  _ whole damn Crystarium _ walked up behind the Scions, that was too much.

_ You stand in his garden _ indeed, and what a garden it was, the flowers beautiful but tough as weeds. Aden smiled, looking down at the hand where he now wore his long-lost engagement ring, thinking not of the man who had given it to him but the man who had returned everything he lost, including his faith in his fellow man.

When they clamored to help he gave them the most fitting task he could--”Defend the Crystarium while we’re gone,” he said, as loud as he could manage out of his worn throat. “I’ll rest easier knowing everything’ll be in its place when I bring the Exarch home.”

_ Home _ . Ah, with the Exarch here--perhaps it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to [Sorin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorin) for beta reading once again!
> 
> You can yell at me on twitter [@AStormcalled](https://twitter.com/AStormcalled) or tumblr [@Dellebecque](https://dellebecque.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> ...And if you recognize the name of this particular WoL, yeah, this is an AU version of my RP main. While they share many traits and some backstory, you'll find they're quite different from one another.


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